The media has been coming out in droves, lately. The Portland Mercury did a short piece on Anawim and then a longer one on Diver, one of our folks. NPR interviewed Jeff Strong on "Day to Day". And now the Oregonian is doing a piece on Anawim. It's time for our 15 mintues, I guess.
But one of the more popular questions we've been asked is how the recession has effected us as a ministry. Has it been harder to get donations? Has our economic outlook been bleaker since the recession?
First of all, officially, the U.S. has been in a recession for a year, according to official channels in Washington D.C. See here: http://www.reuters.com/article/businessNews/idUSTRE4B05YX20081201
So we would have to be talking about our economics over the last year, not just the last few months. And I would say that in general, ministries to the homeless and the working poor have really been struggling, somewhat over the last year, and certainly now. I just heard about a homeless shelter who lost a large grant due to the economic downturn, and we will see a lot more of that. I note that the government bailouts are all going for the big industries, but not to the homeowners losing their homes. Charity begins at the executive level, I guess.
But the fact is, Anawim has been doing really well this year. We called for more donations in order to rent a large facility two days a week, and people have responded. God has stirred people's hearts to grant money to us so we could (just barely) pay the 500 dollars a month so hundreds of people a week could have a meal and a warm place to worship God and learn about God's word. We've been getting more people this year-- a LOT more people. But we've been able to meet all these needs without care. Every week, we have just enough food and space to meet all the needs.
This can be attributed to two things:
First of all, God's amazing provision. Because we depend on God for our supply, He knows what we need and provides it. No doubt that Matthew 6:25-33 is alive and well, if we would just rely on Him.
But there is another aspect as well.
You see, Anawim isn't a ministry to the homeless and the mentally ill. Rather, we are a community OF the homeless and mentally ill. In any community, we share resources, and assist each other. And, as in all communities, the greater the base of those sharing resources, the more resources are available for all. Thus, we are doing well because more people are ending up on the street. The more people who feel that they really are Anawim-- those desperate for God to grant them provision-- and that they are really a part of the community of the poor who has responsibility not only to recieve but to give, the more resources we have to share to all.
Nope, none of us individually have very much. We are all poor. But the community of the poor is a sharing, giving community. Thus, the more poor there are, the better off the community of the poor is.
Blessed are you who are poor, says Jesus, for yours is the kingdom of God. And the economics of that kingdom is visited upon earth among the poor who follow Jesus' principles of giving to the poor.
Showing posts with label Portland Mercury. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Portland Mercury. Show all posts
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Discussion on Diver
Posted by el cubano on December 12, 2008 at 1:11 PM
I just wanted to share something- while this might be hard to talk about, I wanted to ensure that it's not impossible. I'm 25 years old and I'm a year away from graduating at PSU- when I was younger, I had an addiction to drugs that lasted a few years and was homeless for a while as well- couch-surfing and whatnot if not sleeping out of my own car while I was trying to get a job that would scrounge up enough money to be able to afford rent in the L.A. area.
I was lucky enough that I had some family support, although I had to move all the way across the country to Miami to be there to get it. I had heart palpitations and was having all sorts of health issues, including trying to quit smoking to be completely clean. While I'm certainly not perfect now, I've definitely turned my life around and I know that I can stay clean, healthy, and happy- but the will definitely has to lie with the individual and they absolutely, positively have to leave whatever life they had behind in order to move on to a better one.
It's a shame, but it doesn't look like Diver has gotten the support he's needed to be able to do that, since he apparently felt a connection to those people in Gresham in that lifestyle again. It hurts to not have family support, and to not have good friends who are willing to help you through those dark times and won't bring you down. I hope he can pull it together and make it, and as for you Sarah- believe me, it's possible!
Posted by Steve Kimes:
Sarah, first of all, I really want to thank you for your article, and for your update of Diver here. It must be hard to correct a good story, even if you didn't write anything wrong. Ankles and I give you an honorary "breakfast pie" piece for your excellent effort.
But also to respond to El Cubano above. Diver has all the support he wants, if he wants it. Either from his mother, or from our community, which is a strong family, complete with arguments. We all want him to succeed in being clean and in living a positive life.
But there is another community that pulls at him. A community that encourages him to endulge, not really understanding that it means his death and it cripples him spiritually. And he's lived in that community for as long as you, El, have been alive. It's hard to surrender a whole life and begin a new one. We who have done it keep going back to the old life until we are really ready to surrender it.
The road to freedom is different for different people. The reasons for addiction are complex and the solutions can be even more complicated. Chronic homelessness is even more complex still. There just isn't a single answer-- sometimes not even for one person.
But I am confident of this. Diver has left before and returned. When it is time, he will return.
I just wanted to share something- while this might be hard to talk about, I wanted to ensure that it's not impossible. I'm 25 years old and I'm a year away from graduating at PSU- when I was younger, I had an addiction to drugs that lasted a few years and was homeless for a while as well- couch-surfing and whatnot if not sleeping out of my own car while I was trying to get a job that would scrounge up enough money to be able to afford rent in the L.A. area.
I was lucky enough that I had some family support, although I had to move all the way across the country to Miami to be there to get it. I had heart palpitations and was having all sorts of health issues, including trying to quit smoking to be completely clean. While I'm certainly not perfect now, I've definitely turned my life around and I know that I can stay clean, healthy, and happy- but the will definitely has to lie with the individual and they absolutely, positively have to leave whatever life they had behind in order to move on to a better one.
It's a shame, but it doesn't look like Diver has gotten the support he's needed to be able to do that, since he apparently felt a connection to those people in Gresham in that lifestyle again. It hurts to not have family support, and to not have good friends who are willing to help you through those dark times and won't bring you down. I hope he can pull it together and make it, and as for you Sarah- believe me, it's possible!
Posted by Steve Kimes:
Sarah, first of all, I really want to thank you for your article, and for your update of Diver here. It must be hard to correct a good story, even if you didn't write anything wrong. Ankles and I give you an honorary "breakfast pie" piece for your excellent effort.
But also to respond to El Cubano above. Diver has all the support he wants, if he wants it. Either from his mother, or from our community, which is a strong family, complete with arguments. We all want him to succeed in being clean and in living a positive life.
But there is another community that pulls at him. A community that encourages him to endulge, not really understanding that it means his death and it cripples him spiritually. And he's lived in that community for as long as you, El, have been alive. It's hard to surrender a whole life and begin a new one. We who have done it keep going back to the old life until we are really ready to surrender it.
The road to freedom is different for different people. The reasons for addiction are complex and the solutions can be even more complicated. Chronic homelessness is even more complex still. There just isn't a single answer-- sometimes not even for one person.
But I am confident of this. Diver has left before and returned. When it is time, he will return.
Sarah Mirk's Update on Diver
Holy Diver Update
Posted by Sarah Mirk on Thu, Dec 11 at 2:39 PM
The subject of the feature in the paper this week is a guy named Holy Diver who I met riding his bike up Alberta a few months ago. I've been working on the story for a while and it's strange to see it in print now because the situation has changed a lot since I began reporting. When I was hanging out with Diver in November, he was living at a Christian commune in North Portland run by a progressive pastor named Steve who wanted to provide some of his parishioners a place to sleep besides the street. More than that, Steve's house was trying to be a supportive, clean, liberal community to help homeless people get off drugs and alcohol. Creating a strong community of clean friends is key to helping guys like Diver. Here's a quote that didn't make it into the final article:
Cleaning up and turning Christian hasn't been easy. It meant leaving behind a tight-knit community of like-minded vagrants, who still live in camps in Gresham where cops are less likely to move them along. "Out there, I'm like a celebrity, kind of," Diver laments, "There's that sense of love and camaraderie I never had growing up until I became part of this homeless community."
So during the time I spent with him, Diver was genuinely excited about his clean-living lifestyle, his new found faith in God and the luxurious availability of showers and an indoor bathroom at the house. He was linked up to email, helped care for friends with the items he found in dumpsters and and even took up commenting on our site. When I stopped by the house in late November to take some more photos, Pastor Steve answered the door and said Diver hadn't been back since he last went out riding around town with me. That meant Diver was back into the addiction cycle, back out in Gresham and back to the homeless life. I was afraid he'd dropped off the face of the known world but, lo and behold, Matt and I ran into Diver while attending Pastor Steve's shower ministry in Gresham a few weeks later. He's physically fine, but, yes, back into the life he was once enthusiastic about leaving behind.
To me, reporting this story really hit home that real life addiction stories are not the uplifting stuff of Lifetime specials. Getting out of a lifestyle built around addiction is complicated, rarely goes according to plan and remains hard for peoples' entire lives — even if they have God on their side. I'm pulling for Diver and people like him to have the kind of life they want but, honestly, reporting this story has made me I question if thats sometimes just impossible.
Posted by Sarah Mirk on Thu, Dec 11 at 2:39 PM
The subject of the feature in the paper this week is a guy named Holy Diver who I met riding his bike up Alberta a few months ago. I've been working on the story for a while and it's strange to see it in print now because the situation has changed a lot since I began reporting. When I was hanging out with Diver in November, he was living at a Christian commune in North Portland run by a progressive pastor named Steve who wanted to provide some of his parishioners a place to sleep besides the street. More than that, Steve's house was trying to be a supportive, clean, liberal community to help homeless people get off drugs and alcohol. Creating a strong community of clean friends is key to helping guys like Diver. Here's a quote that didn't make it into the final article:
Cleaning up and turning Christian hasn't been easy. It meant leaving behind a tight-knit community of like-minded vagrants, who still live in camps in Gresham where cops are less likely to move them along. "Out there, I'm like a celebrity, kind of," Diver laments, "There's that sense of love and camaraderie I never had growing up until I became part of this homeless community."
So during the time I spent with him, Diver was genuinely excited about his clean-living lifestyle, his new found faith in God and the luxurious availability of showers and an indoor bathroom at the house. He was linked up to email, helped care for friends with the items he found in dumpsters and and even took up commenting on our site. When I stopped by the house in late November to take some more photos, Pastor Steve answered the door and said Diver hadn't been back since he last went out riding around town with me. That meant Diver was back into the addiction cycle, back out in Gresham and back to the homeless life. I was afraid he'd dropped off the face of the known world but, lo and behold, Matt and I ran into Diver while attending Pastor Steve's shower ministry in Gresham a few weeks later. He's physically fine, but, yes, back into the life he was once enthusiastic about leaving behind.
To me, reporting this story really hit home that real life addiction stories are not the uplifting stuff of Lifetime specials. Getting out of a lifestyle built around addiction is complicated, rarely goes according to plan and remains hard for peoples' entire lives — even if they have God on their side. I'm pulling for Diver and people like him to have the kind of life they want but, honestly, reporting this story has made me I question if thats sometimes just impossible.
Diver Makes News!
Diver is one of our Anawim folks, and you get a little bit of insight on the community house as well.
Posted in the Portland Mercury Blog:
http://www.portlandmercury.com/portland/dumpstering-for-christ/Content?oid=979316
Dumpstering for Christ
The Holy Diver Digs for a Living—and Meaning—in Portland's Trash
by Sarah Mirk
Monday morning as the sun rises; Hammer, Ankles, Pastor Steve, and Holy Diver are sitting on sofas in their North Portland living room, eating a concoction called breakfast pie and discussing the Bible. Breakfast pie includes bacon Diver found in a dumpster weeks ago and stashed in the freezer. Diver is a lifelong dumpster diver and on-again-off-again drug addict. His current drug of choice is Christianity.
After the Bible discussion (which is short, frank, and pleasant—Pastor Steve, who doesn't wear shoes, is a minister to the homeless), Diver gets his bike in order and then, while the rest of Portland is just waking up, makes his daily dumpster rounds. He's been scrounging a living from Portland's trashcans for 20 years. But unlike most people who have lingered in Portland's back alleys for that long, Diver is still mentally sharp enough to explain all that he's seen.
"There are three things I've never found in a dumpster," says Diver, now 41 with a weathered face, short gray hair, and bright eyes. "A crying baby, a dead body, or a working handgun."
Diver's bike trailer rattles behind him as he pulls onto N Williams—he welded the trailer together himself and now it's loaded dangerously high with about 300 glass bottles and cans. "Dime!" he says, swooping down into the gutter (a car veers out of the way) to scoop up two old beer cans.
The first stop of the day is a North Portland assisted-living facility, where Diver delivers a hard-boiled egg to a schizophrenic friend. The friend doesn't eat much unless someone stops by to encourage him and the whole egg-delivery routine is part of Diver's new Christian approach to life.
"I want to help other people, I feel like I have a gift, through God, to provide for other people," says Diver. Digging through Stumptown garbage, Diver finds food and clothes for Pastor Steve's entire little homeless ministry commune, where Diver, Ankles, and the others sleep rent free as long as they stay off drugs.
"If it's all about just me then I don't really have a lot of ambition. I'm happy with a book, a sleeping bag, something to eat, a clean pair of socks. But there's nothing better than finding something that someone else threw away and saying, 'Hey, I know exactly who this is for.'"
The egg hand-off goes well. During the rattling ride from North Portland to the Lloyd Center, Diver explains that before he got saved and all that, he dumpstered for meth money. It was a completely different rhythm. He rode fast and dug desperately through trash, staked out territory and sold whatever he could find.
"There's lots of illegal things in dumpsters. I've found enough marijuana to fill a MAX train," he says.
Diver crosses NE Weidler and rolls down into the vacant, grimly fluorescent parking lot under the Lloyd Center Safeway. This is where the can redemption machines live. They're big metal boxes that crunch aluminum and shatter glass, creating a ruckus before they print out a tiny receipt Diver can turn in for cash.
"It smells like a kegger gone bad," Diver laughs, sorting his trailer trash as he launches into a string of numbers that defined his life for many years.
"It takes 400 cans and bottles to buy a $20 bag of speed. And it turns into a monster at that point, because you do a $20 bag of meth and get high and your whole mission is to find 400 more cans to get another bag of speed, etc., etc. It's vicious," he says. "It's rough. It's a rough life. I'm so glad that's not part of my equation anymore."
Diver's parents were addicts, too, he says. They moved around a lot, settling early on in a cheap Los Angeles apartment complex surrounded by a cinderblock wall.
"I was an introverted kid, I spent a lot of time by myself. I used to walk around that wall, just daydream or whatever, and it looked down on this huge dumpster. One day I looked down and it was full of cool stuff—Vietnam memorabilia, a chemistry set. I brought that stuff home and was hooked ever since."
He moved to Portland when he was 20, and for a couple years he got clean and made good money as an unlicensed electrician, owning a five-bedroom house and a Cadillac.
"Before my name was Diver, it was Caddy," he says over the roar of shattering glass.
For a while after that, he slept out in Gresham with a tight-knit community of homeless people and was a "Satanic crackhead" before getting into a rehab program at Central City Concern. He wound up at Pastor Steve's after relapsing.
"To say that I have 100 percent faith in what the Bible says and that Christ is my savior—I would have never ever thought that. I've been through the whole gamut of being atheist, Satanist, drug-addled. But I consider myself an intelligent mammal and I think I've evaluated all the information correctly."
The Safeway machines won't accept all his cans, so Diver heads inside, claims his $5 or so, and then rides out again toward the Hollywood Fred Meyer. He stops at some dumpsters on the way. Some are "nickel dumpsters"—ones that usually just have cans—while others are known for their occasional gems.
"Let's check this goodie box right here," he says, pulling into the parking lot of a convenience store that shall remain nameless. "I found six pounds of weed in this dumpster once!" Diver reaches in, pushing aside last week's tabloids. No drugs today, but he seems elated at what he does find: "A perfectly good cup of soup!" he shouts, victoriously waving a chicken-flavored Cup-O-Noodle.
Diver prefers the low-income areas of town to the affluent suburbs, even though the Southwest has the best dumpster loot. Among the richer communities, his trash picking garners at best indifference—and sometimes hostility. In North and Northeast Portland, he says, café workers on smoke breaks will point him toward the best bags. Like Freegans—anti-consumerists who salvage food—and others who occasionally pick through trashed Whole Foods produce or old Hotlips pizza piles, Holy Diver sees his dumpstering as a political act.
"If I recycle or renew this much stuff in one day, I think that's amazing... I'm doing a service to humanity whether they like it or not," he says. "It would hurt capitalism if everybody just waited until the FDA-regulated date came up, the food had to be thrown away, and everybody just got it for free."
Fred Meyer takes most of Diver's remaining bottle load—his trailer is empty and ready to be filled with food and assorted treasures. He climbs up a tall cargo dumpster in the grocery store parking. On the right days, this dumpster is filled with flowers. Today it's empty, except for a few light cords he eyeballs at being worth $20 to metal scrappers.
"That's a hit of speed right there," he says, shaking his head and climbing down.
Behind the bar Club 21 on NE Sandy, Diver finally hits a goldmine: giant bags of pasta sauce and nacho cheese, expensive organic cranberry juice, piles of canned food, and, inexplicably, two "build your own gingerbread house" cookie kits. It's enough food to supply the next homeless ministry movie night. He gleefully loads the goods into his trailer, smokes a cigarette and turns around to ride home again. It's 11 am and he's done working for the day.
Biking the wrong way up the sidewalk on NE MLK, Diver says, "I don't believe in working for someone else, making minimum wage. I don't believe in paying rent my whole life. In fact, I could do without money completely."
He pauses for a moment, and then adds with a sheepish grin, "...If I didn't smoke cigarettes."
Posted in the Portland Mercury Blog:
http://www.portlandmercury.com/portland/dumpstering-for-christ/Content?oid=979316
Dumpstering for Christ
The Holy Diver Digs for a Living—and Meaning—in Portland's Trash
by Sarah Mirk
Monday morning as the sun rises; Hammer, Ankles, Pastor Steve, and Holy Diver are sitting on sofas in their North Portland living room, eating a concoction called breakfast pie and discussing the Bible. Breakfast pie includes bacon Diver found in a dumpster weeks ago and stashed in the freezer. Diver is a lifelong dumpster diver and on-again-off-again drug addict. His current drug of choice is Christianity.
After the Bible discussion (which is short, frank, and pleasant—Pastor Steve, who doesn't wear shoes, is a minister to the homeless), Diver gets his bike in order and then, while the rest of Portland is just waking up, makes his daily dumpster rounds. He's been scrounging a living from Portland's trashcans for 20 years. But unlike most people who have lingered in Portland's back alleys for that long, Diver is still mentally sharp enough to explain all that he's seen.
"There are three things I've never found in a dumpster," says Diver, now 41 with a weathered face, short gray hair, and bright eyes. "A crying baby, a dead body, or a working handgun."
Diver's bike trailer rattles behind him as he pulls onto N Williams—he welded the trailer together himself and now it's loaded dangerously high with about 300 glass bottles and cans. "Dime!" he says, swooping down into the gutter (a car veers out of the way) to scoop up two old beer cans.
The first stop of the day is a North Portland assisted-living facility, where Diver delivers a hard-boiled egg to a schizophrenic friend. The friend doesn't eat much unless someone stops by to encourage him and the whole egg-delivery routine is part of Diver's new Christian approach to life.
"I want to help other people, I feel like I have a gift, through God, to provide for other people," says Diver. Digging through Stumptown garbage, Diver finds food and clothes for Pastor Steve's entire little homeless ministry commune, where Diver, Ankles, and the others sleep rent free as long as they stay off drugs.
"If it's all about just me then I don't really have a lot of ambition. I'm happy with a book, a sleeping bag, something to eat, a clean pair of socks. But there's nothing better than finding something that someone else threw away and saying, 'Hey, I know exactly who this is for.'"
The egg hand-off goes well. During the rattling ride from North Portland to the Lloyd Center, Diver explains that before he got saved and all that, he dumpstered for meth money. It was a completely different rhythm. He rode fast and dug desperately through trash, staked out territory and sold whatever he could find.
"There's lots of illegal things in dumpsters. I've found enough marijuana to fill a MAX train," he says.
Diver crosses NE Weidler and rolls down into the vacant, grimly fluorescent parking lot under the Lloyd Center Safeway. This is where the can redemption machines live. They're big metal boxes that crunch aluminum and shatter glass, creating a ruckus before they print out a tiny receipt Diver can turn in for cash.
"It smells like a kegger gone bad," Diver laughs, sorting his trailer trash as he launches into a string of numbers that defined his life for many years.
"It takes 400 cans and bottles to buy a $20 bag of speed. And it turns into a monster at that point, because you do a $20 bag of meth and get high and your whole mission is to find 400 more cans to get another bag of speed, etc., etc. It's vicious," he says. "It's rough. It's a rough life. I'm so glad that's not part of my equation anymore."
Diver's parents were addicts, too, he says. They moved around a lot, settling early on in a cheap Los Angeles apartment complex surrounded by a cinderblock wall.
"I was an introverted kid, I spent a lot of time by myself. I used to walk around that wall, just daydream or whatever, and it looked down on this huge dumpster. One day I looked down and it was full of cool stuff—Vietnam memorabilia, a chemistry set. I brought that stuff home and was hooked ever since."
He moved to Portland when he was 20, and for a couple years he got clean and made good money as an unlicensed electrician, owning a five-bedroom house and a Cadillac.
"Before my name was Diver, it was Caddy," he says over the roar of shattering glass.
For a while after that, he slept out in Gresham with a tight-knit community of homeless people and was a "Satanic crackhead" before getting into a rehab program at Central City Concern. He wound up at Pastor Steve's after relapsing.
"To say that I have 100 percent faith in what the Bible says and that Christ is my savior—I would have never ever thought that. I've been through the whole gamut of being atheist, Satanist, drug-addled. But I consider myself an intelligent mammal and I think I've evaluated all the information correctly."
The Safeway machines won't accept all his cans, so Diver heads inside, claims his $5 or so, and then rides out again toward the Hollywood Fred Meyer. He stops at some dumpsters on the way. Some are "nickel dumpsters"—ones that usually just have cans—while others are known for their occasional gems.
"Let's check this goodie box right here," he says, pulling into the parking lot of a convenience store that shall remain nameless. "I found six pounds of weed in this dumpster once!" Diver reaches in, pushing aside last week's tabloids. No drugs today, but he seems elated at what he does find: "A perfectly good cup of soup!" he shouts, victoriously waving a chicken-flavored Cup-O-Noodle.
Diver prefers the low-income areas of town to the affluent suburbs, even though the Southwest has the best dumpster loot. Among the richer communities, his trash picking garners at best indifference—and sometimes hostility. In North and Northeast Portland, he says, café workers on smoke breaks will point him toward the best bags. Like Freegans—anti-consumerists who salvage food—and others who occasionally pick through trashed Whole Foods produce or old Hotlips pizza piles, Holy Diver sees his dumpstering as a political act.
"If I recycle or renew this much stuff in one day, I think that's amazing... I'm doing a service to humanity whether they like it or not," he says. "It would hurt capitalism if everybody just waited until the FDA-regulated date came up, the food had to be thrown away, and everybody just got it for free."
Fred Meyer takes most of Diver's remaining bottle load—his trailer is empty and ready to be filled with food and assorted treasures. He climbs up a tall cargo dumpster in the grocery store parking. On the right days, this dumpster is filled with flowers. Today it's empty, except for a few light cords he eyeballs at being worth $20 to metal scrappers.
"That's a hit of speed right there," he says, shaking his head and climbing down.
Behind the bar Club 21 on NE Sandy, Diver finally hits a goldmine: giant bags of pasta sauce and nacho cheese, expensive organic cranberry juice, piles of canned food, and, inexplicably, two "build your own gingerbread house" cookie kits. It's enough food to supply the next homeless ministry movie night. He gleefully loads the goods into his trailer, smokes a cigarette and turns around to ride home again. It's 11 am and he's done working for the day.
Biking the wrong way up the sidewalk on NE MLK, Diver says, "I don't believe in working for someone else, making minimum wage. I don't believe in paying rent my whole life. In fact, I could do without money completely."
He pauses for a moment, and then adds with a sheepish grin, "...If I didn't smoke cigarettes."
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Portland Mercury Article
One of the edgiest of the "Village Voice" newspapers in Portland, The Portland Mercury has written an article on Steve and the Anawim meeting in Gresham on Saturday. Here it is, in all it's glory. If you want to see the original, with the pic the author took of Steve, check it out here:
http://www.portlandmercury.com/portland/in-the-shadows/Content?oid=964647
In the Shadows
Socks, Showers, and God
by Matt Davis
Steve Kimes is not your typical minister. When we first met last Saturday, November 29, with his fulsome beard and his casual felt hat, I almost mistook him for one of his congregation—90 percent of whom are homeless or mentally ill. No offense intended.
Kimes, along with his wife Diane, started the Anawim Christian Community in 1995, listening to the stories of the poor and disenfranchised in Portland and Gresham. They now run regular services at Anawim and at the Peace Mennonite Church on NE 196th and Glisan. And on Saturday mornings in Gresham, they run "shower ministry." I was in attendance on recent Saturday where roughly 30 people had shown up at 11 am for hot Spam, chicken soup, and pasta, a chance to exchange their dirty clothes for clean ones, and a free shower. Later, they would also pray—but we'll come to that.
One of the odder effects of a free clothing exchange is that people tend to wear things that fit them—not clothes that necessarily reflect their personalities or passions. The results can be disconcerting.
"I'm not a gun man at all," says Danno, a gentle old fellow wearing a Smith & Wesson T-shirt featuring a cobra coiled around a shotgun.
I see a man walk past in a Broncos hooded top, and someone else emerges from the shower wearing an Epcot Center jersey. I decide against football and Disney World as introductory topics of conversation.
"You're not a cop, are you?" asks Jimmy, who approaches with wary menace, wearing a baseball cap with the Confederate flag on it, and the word "Rebel" embroidered on the brim. Rather than ask Jimmy whether it's true or not, I decide to take his cap at its word and tread carefully.
"I'm a journalist," I say. "Here's my card."
After taking it to a far-off table and considering the card for a minute, Jimmy returns to shake my hand and apologize.
"I just feel wary about anybody sitting in the corner, taking notes," he says.
It's not surprising. From talking to others in the congregation, the general consensus seems to be that the cops in Gresham are less tolerant of the homeless than those in Portland. Jimmy estimates he's been "moved along" more than 100 times over the years, and says he's been told to go "anywhere on the other side of 162nd"— meaning, toward Portland—by a cop.
Apart from different attitudes toward law enforcement, there also seemed to be more of a sense of family, community, and self-sufficiency among the homeless I met in this unlikely church, east of the I-205, compared to the atmosphere at many of the homeless service providers I've been to in Portland. Kimes has undoubtedly worked hard on fostering this feeling.
"Jesus," I say, when Kimes tells me how many homeless people in recovery he's currently got living in his house. (Answer: More than a few, but Kimes would rather the total not wind up in print.) Then I realize I've blasphemed in his presence and apologize profusely, because the guy is dead serious about his God.
As I leave, Kimes is booming out a hymn called "Holy Is the Lord" with a heady baritone and no musical accompaniment, apart from the enthusiastic voices of his assorted congregation. Having admitted to me earlier that the work can involve battles with depression—Kimes has officiated a funeral for each of his 13 years, but only one wedding—I can't help but be impressed by his ability to continue with it, no matter what the motivation. And I'm not normally one for religious fervor, either—but in Kimes' case, it appears to be working.
Perhaps there's a Christian T-shirt in his exchange box, somewhere, for me.
http://www.portlandmercury.com/portland/in-the-shadows/Content?oid=964647
In the Shadows
Socks, Showers, and God
by Matt Davis
Steve Kimes is not your typical minister. When we first met last Saturday, November 29, with his fulsome beard and his casual felt hat, I almost mistook him for one of his congregation—90 percent of whom are homeless or mentally ill. No offense intended.
Kimes, along with his wife Diane, started the Anawim Christian Community in 1995, listening to the stories of the poor and disenfranchised in Portland and Gresham. They now run regular services at Anawim and at the Peace Mennonite Church on NE 196th and Glisan. And on Saturday mornings in Gresham, they run "shower ministry." I was in attendance on recent Saturday where roughly 30 people had shown up at 11 am for hot Spam, chicken soup, and pasta, a chance to exchange their dirty clothes for clean ones, and a free shower. Later, they would also pray—but we'll come to that.
One of the odder effects of a free clothing exchange is that people tend to wear things that fit them—not clothes that necessarily reflect their personalities or passions. The results can be disconcerting.
"I'm not a gun man at all," says Danno, a gentle old fellow wearing a Smith & Wesson T-shirt featuring a cobra coiled around a shotgun.
I see a man walk past in a Broncos hooded top, and someone else emerges from the shower wearing an Epcot Center jersey. I decide against football and Disney World as introductory topics of conversation.
"You're not a cop, are you?" asks Jimmy, who approaches with wary menace, wearing a baseball cap with the Confederate flag on it, and the word "Rebel" embroidered on the brim. Rather than ask Jimmy whether it's true or not, I decide to take his cap at its word and tread carefully.
"I'm a journalist," I say. "Here's my card."
After taking it to a far-off table and considering the card for a minute, Jimmy returns to shake my hand and apologize.
"I just feel wary about anybody sitting in the corner, taking notes," he says.
It's not surprising. From talking to others in the congregation, the general consensus seems to be that the cops in Gresham are less tolerant of the homeless than those in Portland. Jimmy estimates he's been "moved along" more than 100 times over the years, and says he's been told to go "anywhere on the other side of 162nd"— meaning, toward Portland—by a cop.
Apart from different attitudes toward law enforcement, there also seemed to be more of a sense of family, community, and self-sufficiency among the homeless I met in this unlikely church, east of the I-205, compared to the atmosphere at many of the homeless service providers I've been to in Portland. Kimes has undoubtedly worked hard on fostering this feeling.
"Jesus," I say, when Kimes tells me how many homeless people in recovery he's currently got living in his house. (Answer: More than a few, but Kimes would rather the total not wind up in print.) Then I realize I've blasphemed in his presence and apologize profusely, because the guy is dead serious about his God.
As I leave, Kimes is booming out a hymn called "Holy Is the Lord" with a heady baritone and no musical accompaniment, apart from the enthusiastic voices of his assorted congregation. Having admitted to me earlier that the work can involve battles with depression—Kimes has officiated a funeral for each of his 13 years, but only one wedding—I can't help but be impressed by his ability to continue with it, no matter what the motivation. And I'm not normally one for religious fervor, either—but in Kimes' case, it appears to be working.
Perhaps there's a Christian T-shirt in his exchange box, somewhere, for me.
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