churchesmustserve

This morning I awoke at 5:15 a.m. and originally planned to go to Burger King and spend my last 55 cents on a cup of coffee.
Then, an inner voice said, "Walk to the Central United Methodist Church on Dickson Street for Bible study."
After an hour and 15 minutes of briskly walking I wondered if it would really be worth it.
Indeed, it was.
The Wiggins Methodist Minister Gary Lunsford mentioned that when Seven Hills Homeless Shelter shut down on Saturdays his church was asked if they could serve meals every Saturday.
Gary said that one-third of his congregation objected and didn't want those people in their church.
A memory triggered in my brain.
The first time I reentered the sanctuary at Wiggins where my father pastored from 1973-76, I saw an article I had written about the dedication of the church when it was debt free. It was posted in a frame.
The district superintendent preached about how fortunate the members of the church were to have no more debts on their hallowed sanctuary.
But then he said, "But how many people are here who are on welfare?"
That struck me in an eerie way.
I am drawing food stamps. I'm on a form of welfare. And, here I am attending their church.
I'm sleeping in a tent.
On Sunday after the services, a long-standing member of the church invited me to a pot luck dinner.
I politely disdained and said I wanted to be by myself. I didn't want to embarrass anyone by mentioning the irony involved. I was fulfilling the prophetic message that district superintendent queried the congregation about 35 years ago.
It's still haunting me.
Why am I homeless?
Why did I return to Wiggins?
Am I more acceptable because my father used to be the minister?
Only God knows.