St. James Urban

The sign outside says, “Welcome to St. James Church—Not your mothers church. If you don’t like church, come to our church; if you don’t like churches who say ‘If you don’t like church, come to our church,’ come to our church”. We still have cheep garland hung in the rafters, left over from Christmas. We straggle in sometime between 9 and 11 every Sunday morning, some more consistently than others. A cheep pot of coffee is brewed, available only to those who arrive before 10. The nativity scene from Big Lots hangs around the altar…complete with a plastic dragon from the other nativity story in Revelation 12. Cut out of the plaster on the wall behind the pupit is an exposed brick cross. Inside the cutout cross perches a painted wooden cross from Guatamala, with hands reaching up towards the sun. Pieces of stained-glass are glued on the windows, forming shape of the sun with streams of color coming out of it. On top of the stained glass, someone has overlayed a frosted sticker of Jesus. The altar is a foreshadowing of the sermon to come. A stick with a vice grip on it, communion, pictures of the worlds dictators with horns and beards scribbled on them safety goggles, a candle in between two pieces of reflective glass. The candle is repeated thousands of times in the glass reflections. Rembrant’s the Prodical Son is to the left, along with an easel with a big pad of paper—for announcements and the occasional drawing or group discussion topic.

We take turns preaching, leading worship. Everyone gets their own customized birthday song if they want it. We are all in different phases of grief about how bad the singing is. Both our collective voice, and one particularly loud, always off-key soprano voice. Pastor Hicks plays the drums…a perfect accompaniment to the chaos. Brian the guitarist can play the guitar and the keyboard at the same time, and fancies himself a 4th generation medicine man. During corporate prayer he walks around and lays hands on people, sometimes mumbling weird stuff. I like it, even though it’s odd and creepy. Lee won’t come back. He said he would rather have no friends than fifty friends and Brian in his life. Charlie, JJ, Steve, or sometimes Michael sleep through the whole service on the ratty blue couch on the far wall. Charlie snores.

Songs come from a compilation of church favorites, or 70s Young Life song books, or old Presbyterian hymnals. I like it when we sing Bob Dylan, “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” (Cool Hand Luke Style), and “Come thou Fount of Every Blessing”—I hate it when we sing “the Rose”, a churchy adaptation of “From a Distance,” and “Shut de Door, Keep out de Devil” (in this horrible Jamaican accent). I do not like singing—but I think "sucking it up" is worship (though it doesn't hurt to miss a few songs....). Faith skipped the singing a few weeks ago and started us off with different stations to tell our story at. One station was writing, one was art, one was talking. Then we had another set of stations. Scripture reading, prayer and giving. She thought everyone would spend time talking—since people are always talking during church! But the art station was the most popular.

Chaos is always present, but kept in check. Homeless, mentally ill friends wander in and out, and dogs are welcome—one time a dog peed on the pastor when he was preaching. Brian sometimes brings his Buddhist singing bowls to set the tone for worship. Occasonally, people use the attached bathroom and make weird sounds in there. However, unrelated or judgemental rants are cut off. People don’t spoke in tongues, fall down by the power of the Holy Spirit, go into convulsions, or start prophesying. Soliciting of money, showers, or favors during the service are not welcome. John says if you say something bad about sex you have to say three nice things.

There is usually money left over every month and we alternate on who gets to decide where it goes. One month it was my turn—Saint James Urban became the first church ever to sponsor a bike messenger event, complete with all you can drink Flying Dog Ale and Pabst Blue Ribbon.

We are into doing inner work. Most of the regulars have gone to lots of therapy. At least half are 12-steppers. One of the more classy ladies is in a Jungian dream group. Pastor Hicks has made nearly everyone take the enneagram and Myers-Briggs. There are a few therapists. Often worship leaders, preachers, prayers admit their brokenness, their neediness. At lunch we hash out all the problems in the world.

We are activists. Mike started an Africa Prayer Club. Katherine and Kevin attend a weekly racial reconciliation group. John writes letters to senators and the Secretary of State. Sara works for the Homeless Coalition. Amy teaches financial responsibility to the poor and hopes to help Africans with micro lending. Faith saves the world from pollution. I help poor kids learn math (I don’t like it but I am contributing!) Sid is a middle school vice principal, his wife is a nurse. Randy is a writer for FEMA. Charlie employs homeless men to sort out his belongings and help him with his next scheme.

The whole church came out to help me paint my townhouse. I get a lot of prayers from them.

Most people have been involved—either as clients or shift directors—with Network Coffee House, the homeless coffeehouse on the first floor, right below the “sanctuary”. It’s a living room for homeless to drink coffee, take showers, do laundry, and argue. Open nearly every night, and two days a week, the place attracts the “lifers”. The Denver Dialogue emerged among the regulars downstairs—it’s a paper for homeless to share anecdotes, critique free meals, let fellow street dwellers in on the “top of the town” the 5280 doesn’t cover—the top medical clinics for homeless, day shelters, dumpsters, homeless veterinary services. It also serves as a rant for the maltreatment and disrespect of homeless everywhere.

Some yearly traditions are: decorating the church for Christmas, midnight Christmas service with afterparty, really bad caroling around Capitol Hill through half-way houses and apartments of 20-somethings, Dia De Los Muertas, the Network Staff pizza party, the SJU retreat. Sara shows movies to the Network regulars on a projector every first Saturday. If we have a 5th Sunday in a month, we don’t have singing and preaching. We do something else like talk about the “house within” or have a potluck.

I preach every other month. Each time I do, everyone tells me they loved it—even if I mostly just cried, or revealed how sorry I feel for myself for not having my way all the time! We loiter afterwords. People split off and have lunch together. I try to keep my Sunday afternoons free.

Saint James Urban is home to me.