Download a digital copy (1.5 MB) - Open Door Community

The Sacraments of Hospitality ˜ 237
gathered on the steps of City Hall for our liturgy, storm clouds hung in the sky.
We hoped we would not get wet. We were joined by friends from Columbia
Seminary and St. Jude’s Catholic Parish.
Perhaps, we thought, we’d start a bit early to finish before the rain. Rob
Johnson began a prayer to open our worship. He recalled that the curtain in the
Temple was torn in two as Jesus died. The wind picked up. Suddenly a siren
blared through the city, and we realized in horror that it was a tornado warning.
The rain and wind ripped through our little circle like a freight train. It seemed
almost to lift the children off the ground. Without a word we all ran toward the
building. Lights shone within, and as we began to knock frantically and then to
pound on the doors we saw three guards sitting at a desk in the center hall. As
the wind tore at us we clung to each other and held the frightened children
close. In a matter of minutes we were soaked to the skin. For what seemed like
forever the guards sat passively and stared at us. They did not move from
the desk.
Some of us began looking for a ditch, but there was nothing. There we were,
in front of glass doors as the sirens wailed and the wind threatened to sweep us
away. The guards talked to each other. After what seemed an eternity, one of
them picked up a phone. A man in a tie appeared from an upstairs office. He
pressed his weight to open the door against the wind. We could come in, he said,
and stand between the two sets of doors ’til the storm passed.
We re-formed our circle. As we dripped on the floor we began our liturgy,
“The Family of the Crucified” (adapted from a liturgy written by the American
Christians for the Abolition of Torture).
“We have come together . . . to walk with Christ down the Via Dolorosa,
to enter into his sufferings. Christ is in agony today in the sufferings of his people
and in the pain of those who suffer as he did—homeless, despised, arrested,
tortured, mocked, abused, and finally, executed by the state.
“As we ask Christ to let us enter into solidarity with him we sense his response:
‘Enter into the sufferings of those who suffer and are oppressed in your
world today. I suffer continuously in them. . . .’”
There we stood: on the marble floor of the entrance to Atlanta’s City Hall.
There we stood: conscious that we had chosen for a short time to go to the
streets, to give up the privileges of sitting comfortably inside for worship; conscious
that God had given us the gift of an experience of vulnerability. There we
stood: at the foot of the cross, awaiting the dawn of God’s new day, perhaps a
day when all the safe, warm spaces are not locked and protected by security
guards.
Holy Week on the streets helped us long for Easter. The winds of Good Friday
stirred our passion to extend the safe, warm space and to welcome those
locked out in the storm.
Easter morning burst forth in the grimy, desolate parking lot beside the mu-