As I sat there in front of
the red, brick church sign, I read these words: “The Sanctuary: A place of
refuge.” I looked down at my clothes that were covered with dirt, rips and old
stains. My shoes had holes in the front, exposing my bare toes to the chilly
October morning. I was experiencing the life of the homeless.
I gazed down the gravel road and positioned myself so
that every person who turned into the church parking lot could see me. The
clock struck nine. Church leaders and staff came hurrying in, rushing to tend
to their Sunday morning duties. Out of 15 cars, no one stopped to talk, help,
or even stare at me. 10:30 came quickly and the early arrivers started
trickling in. 42 cars. Out of those 42, 7 tapped their breaks and 0 stopped to
acknowledge me. That is 57 cars so far that have come, but not stopped. Church
started at 10:50, so at 10:47, 50 more cars came rolling in. No one stopped. No
one tapped their breaks.
At this point my feet are getting cold from the wet
grass. I turned my head towards the church building and saw a sight I won’t
ever forget. A 10 year old child walking towards me with a donut and coffee. His
mother was standing next to the open church doors watching as he handed me the
food. He said God Bless, and walked away. In astonishment, I ate the donut and
scarfed down the coffee. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to
see my youth pastor of 7 years. He invited me inside and I agreed.
Once inside, I got
looks of confusion, but none of antipathy. I sat in the back of the church,
alone, with awkward written all over me. Little did the congregation know the
pastor and I had a plan
(I had contacted him a week before and asked his
permission to do my experiment.). When worship
finished, everyone sat down, but
I boldly stood up. I made my way to the pool pit and began revealing
my true
identity. The church was aghast
