It was an early spring day, rainy, mid-March, and the drop-in was crowded with people coming in from the damp cold, stamping water off their boots, and gathering around tables for warm soup and sandwiches. Luke and I were sitting by the piano away from the crowd, chatting about his week, and the piano reminded me of the songs we sang during our worship service the night before. I asked him if he was happy we’d sung Amazing Grace, remembering how he had told me he loved that song more than anything. I began to play a few of the piano notes absentmindedly: Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. Suddenly, taking me by surprise, Luke became upset and began to yell, his eyes turning red with tears: “Stop it! Stop playing! I can’t stand hearing that f—ing song right now. I hate it!”

I tried to understand what was upsetting him, as he threw his most honest and challenging questions at me: “Why would God ever love me?” he asked. “I’ve made so many mistakes! Why would he ever forgive someone as stupid and screwed up as me? Where is his grace?” I tried to reassure him that God loved him so much, that his grace was pouring over him at that very moment.

“No!” he said. “Stop saying that! God’s grace is for everyone else, but not for me… ” After some time of sitting in silence, he finally told me that he loved that song because he wanted so much to have God’s grace, but he hated that song because he didn’t feel he deserved the grace he so longed for. And the more we talked about grace, the more I became aware of the feeling that God’s grace was pouring over me too, in the middle of this very conversation—and it was pouring over me through Luke. I felt a space opening up inside me where my own hurts could more freely emerge, and I felt blessed that Luke trusted our friendship enough to be so real with me. His brokenness made room for my own brokenness.

Then, very slowly, I became aware of something else lingering deep down–something I didn’t like and didn’t want to admit to myself, something I felt embarrassed about: the realization that along with those feelings of blessing, were much deeper feelings of envy. Envy that Luke could just pour it all out so easily… I was frustrated with myself. Here I really wanted to respond with love, and instead, found myself envious of his honest outpouring, his blunt way of sharing, his comfort with saying exactly what he felt while trusting I wouldn’t walk away from him. I envied the space he had to really be himself—and I longed for that.

A couple of weeks later, Luke and I were at a coffee shop with another friend, celebrating his birthday, and I was reminded of our earlier conversation. I told him what a gift he was to me through his honesty, and I thanked him. “You are one of my teachers,” I said. He looked at me, beaming, but also confused. “I am? Really? Why?” I explained how sometimes I, like so many others, hide behind a mask, and that he teaches me to take it off.

“A mask?” he asked. “What do you mean?” As I shared how so many of us wear a mask to hide our pain and convince the world we have it all together, Luke looked at me in total disbelief, astonished that anyone would do this. “But why?” he asked. “Why would you do that? Why??”

Some of my friends at Sanctuary have been my best teachers, because they are not afraid to really be themselves—to be weak and vulnerable, and to fully express their needs as they come. I learn from them that God’s glory is found in our weakness. That heaven and earth overlap in the very place we don’t think the Kingdom would ever want to show up in us. In what feels like an ugly mess, God’s grace is waiting. When Luke lets his weakness shine into my life, he gives me a beautiful gift: a safe place where God finds me and tells me that my own weakness is also loved by him. Luke teaches me that the cross is found in our moments of trusting that when we reveal our brokenness, God will not leave us nor forsake us, and that maybe, just maybe, neither will our friends.

I love you… You matter to me… I will not leave you.We long to hear these affirmations, but when they come, we struggle to believe them. We push them away. That’s impossible, we say, I’m not good enough… why would someone want to love me?

I am standing with Claire behind a small house where some of us have gathered for a day of relaxing community time. Poplars graze the blue-grey sky and a steady April wind rushes through the leaves… normally a peaceful sound for me, but this afternoon, tension is high. For the past hour, Claire’s emotions have rollercoasted up and down, unleashing her pain and her paralyzing fear that the bright promise of love has, once again, gone and disappeared…

“Leave me alone!” she yells at me, her eyes dark and frenzied. “You’re not my f—ing friend after all. I thought I could trust you, but you don’t care about me!”

I am lost for words. So many people have abandoned Claire in her life – why would she believe I’m any different? Somehow I need to convince her that I will keep loving her no matter what…

I reassure her again. “I care about you very much. Nothing will change that.”

“I was stupid to come here today,” she yells. “No one wants me around!”

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

She wrings her hands together. “No, no, no you’re not! You’re not even my friend. You only care about Stephanie!”

I look her deep in the eyes and wish like crazy I could convince her. “I am your friend and you matter to me.”

Stephanie is a friend of Claire’s at Sanctuary, and despite their difficulty trusting, they have become close over the months. This morning, however, they got into a heated argument and said some hurtful things. Now, as Claire fears losing Stephanie’s friendship, she tells me she is scared she will also lose me, us – that her friends and community will choose Stephanie over her, and she will be forgotten. Or no longer wanted. Like so many of our Sanctuary friends, Claire is afraid there isn’t enough love to go around. She is caught in something called the zero sum game of love, and her fear of rejection has shaken her deep in her core.

In game theory, the zero sum game is a situation in which a gain or win by one person must be balanced with a loss by another, to equal zero. It assumes there is a fixed or finite amount of a particular resource that two or more people must compete for. When applied to love, this kind of thinking assumes there is not enough love for everyone – that if someone gains love, someone else must lose it; for example, if our close friend gives love to another friend, there might not be enough left over for us.

And haven’t so many of us experienced this same fear and wondered, why would someone love me when there are so many better people to love? Or, how could God possibly love me as much as he loves others, when they are obviously more blessed than me, more together than me, more loveable than me? How could I, with all my mess-ups, also be his beloved?

By the end of the afternoon, I am sitting with Claire in the deck chairs. She has calmed down, and stares out at the trees, sighing. “I guess you probably love me,” she says. “I guess I was just mad because I thought you only loved Stephanie. But I guess maybe you love me too.” Yes, yes I do.

Claire has told me before how the people in her past caused her indescribable hurt. She knows first-hand the devastation of love promised and then taken away: never a place to call ‘home.’ For many of us, we have searched so long for a place of home, that when we find it, we hang onto that love as tightly as possible.

But we are learning together that God blesses us with an abundance of love, a love that stretches as our community grows – not so we can keep it for ourselves, but so we can invite others into that same love. Our need to protect love is slowly being transformed into an ability to release love. We are a community working hard to figure out our place in a very large story of love – a story so human and real and close to home we barely dare to believe it, and a story so all-encompassing that it takes our breath away. As we live it out together, sometimes we get it right, and sometimes we don’t, but the process is always beautiful, always courageous, and always worth it…

One year ago, at our Wednesday Christmas drop-in, one of our Sanctuary friends gave me a small Christmas cactus. Pete is a very kind and soft-spoken man, with a spirit of love and generosity. He had shared with me that he didn’t have family, had lost his wife years ago, had very little money, and lived alone in a small bachelor apartment – a life that became very lonely sometimes. And yet, despite these struggles, he was bringing gifts to his friends! To me! The cactus was a beautiful blessing, reminding me that I was loved and not alone.

Two weeks ago, as our Sanctuary community headed into advent, I was stung by mixed emotions: sadness and grief of hopes laid down and dreams let go, together with the wonderment, anticipation, and deeper knowing of God bringing his own dreams to life with us – how a small candle of joy would be a big and bright light among us. I thought of many joyous moments when we saw God’s face and celebrated his healing; I also remembered the fears we carried: were we really God’s beloved? Would we really have good friends to walk through life with?

A few mornings ago, as I felt the weight of these thoughts, I walked into my kitchen to make a cup of tea, and there was the Christmas cactus Pete had given me one year ago, blooming bright red for the very first time. One large blossom had already reached completion, but there were a few tiny red buds still waiting to open into the fullness of the image God had made them to be, waiting on what was to come.

I thought about the Lord’s prayer: Your Kingdom come… on Earth as it is in Heaven. I knew what I desperately wanted it to look like. For hurts to be healed, broken relationships reconciled, hope renewed, and healthy love to blossom. Why were things still so messy, and when would they be set right? And what could I possibly offer my friends as I stood among them?

And then as I chatted with Darryl, he reminded me that this was exactly the thing we could offer: standing among one another, being with one another – so that none of us are alone in our struggles. Emmanuel. God with us. This, I realized, was the direction towards joy.

At Sanctuary, one of our favourite things to do is spend time together. In joy and celebration, and in hard times. Hanging out together at dropins, playing cards, telling funny stories, laughing at silly jokes, sharing our stories and hurt, and just being ourselves. Being home together. Being for each other a little bit of advent light. At our Wednesday dropin this week, we will share a Christmas meal – twelve tables of friends together – twelve families combined into one very large family. Thursday night, we will gather for another Christmas meal at First Baptist church, where almost 200 friends will gather from Sanctuary and Streetlight. All kinds of people with all kinds of stories – with homes and without, with family and without, with children and without, with healing and brokenness, with joy and with sorrow – and all having one thing in common – a desire for connection, togetherness, and home.

Last Sunday night, Gil reminded us that God looks at each of us with so much love – that we are already wonderful in his eyes. He is already pleased with us! He rejoices over us! And this is what I hope we can be for each other this Christmas and all year long: standing together, and reminding each other that we are God’s beloved, that he loves us, and that with us, he is well pleased. This is the good news born in a manger!

We pray that this Christmas, as friendships blossom and we walk together in love and community, God’s Kingdom will come just a little bit closer, and our dreams will meet his, just a little bit more.

Henry has been helping out in the kitchen here at Sanctuary for two or three months now.  Every Wednesday he is there at 3pm sharp, ready and excited to tackle whatever cooking adventure we have lined up for the day.  His heart to serve is not easily conceiled.

My conversations with Henry until this past week were mostly small talk.  I know that he is new to London and that he came from Toronto.  I know that he is a big football fan, although I can't quite remember what team he cheers for.  I also know that he is currently unable to hold employment because of a car accident that has done some severe damage to his back.  But beyond these few things, I don't know much about Henry's life.  He seems to rpefer to work silently.  A few weeks ago he single handedly peeled 50 pounds of potatoes without so much as a word of complaint.  And he is great with our community as well.  He's always encouraging, never belittling. 

I could tell that he knew his way around the kitchen, and when we were making apple crisp for desert, I watched in amazement as he peeled and sliced at least half a dozen apples by the time I was able to peel just one!

Until that day, he never let on just how much he knew.  So I had to ask, "Have you worked in a kitchen before, or is cooking just a hobby for you?

"Ya, I enjoy cooking," was his nonchalant response.  It took some pretty serious digging on my part before he would admit to me that he spent over 30 years in the hospitality industry before his accident.  He first worked as a prep line worker, and most recently as manager of a number of high end kitchens in Toronto!  And even with all of these years of experience, this trained professional was taking orders from me….  From me!  The guy who recently added four cups of corn starch to help 'thicken up the gravy a little' (instead of a few teaspoons…… who knew the difference?).

I can't believe that Henry never once tried to take over, or at least try to show me a better way of doing things.  Instead, he always asked me what I would like him to do, and how I wanted him to do it.  This is the kind of person I strive to be like.  A heart completely filled with humility.  One who empowers others by serving in complete submission, even when I think that I know a better way of doing things.

One thing I can tell you for sure.  The next time Henry comes to help in the kitchen, I think I'll let him slice the apples the way he thinks they should be sliced.

Here in this kitchen with my Sanctuary friends,
we are learning to make bread. Adding the yeast,
kneading the dough, rest fifteen minutes,
rest and repeat, rest and release, love and release.
My bread is rising. My prayers are rising
into the warm room like a flutter of birds
into hope. I want to stay here, where I can do nothing
but watch the bread rise, here in this kitchen
of order and knowing, with its recipes
and predictable outcomes, smooth cupboards,
cool glide of stainless steel, bright lights steady
as the humdrum of rain outside.
Because everywhere else, things get messy.
There are so many people hurting out there
on the streets, and so many questions
without answers. There is a brother or sister
we keep running from, a family falling apart,
a constant fear that love won’t last.
And I want to be there, fully present in the midst
of what is not yet fully risen—
in the waiting for the rising that comes
when the darkness of Saturday is over. But I also
want, for this one hour, to just make bread
with my friends, where I can rely on patterns
of measuring and pouring, of kneading and folding
the dough over and over again. Where I can be
sure of the outcome and pretend I have some control
over the world by loving things
enough to make them love me back.
Where I can pretend to myself
there is a recipe even for this: for stopping someone
from leaving me by loving them enough.
And where, mostly, I am learning the deeper truth
of the matter: that love can only be given as a gift,
that love cannot make anyone do or not do anything—
just as in the warmth of this kitchen,
where things that are measured are also spilling
over, the bread rises freely
simply because it wants to.

On August 10th of this past summer, I joined eighty thousand other fans from around the world to cheer for Oscar Pistorius as he ran the final leg of the 4x400m final at the London Olympics. Yes, I was at the Olympics in London England!

Earlier this spring, my ten year old son Isaiah was nominated by his hockey coach for an award through McDonald's for leadership, sportsmanship, fitness level, and community involvement. According to the essay submitted by his coach, he was a stand-out on his hockey team. We included in Isaiah's "community involvement" component his participation in Sanctuary London — where he joins us regularly, and even brought his whole hockey team to a drop-in meal last winter. The prize — a trip for two to the London Olympics. And Isaiah won! We flew out for an amazing four day experience in London, England. We saw Sherlock Holmes' house at 221B Baker St, the London Eye, Parliament buildings and Big Ben, as well as two Olympic events – bronze medal match for women's court volleyball (Japan won in 3 sets over South Korea) and the second last night of track and field at Olympic Park (saw the 4x100m women's final won by the American women in world record time, pole vault, hammer throw, 4x100m men's qualifying, and a few other races). It was an experience like no other.

That one moment struck me. Oscar Pistorius — his lower legs amputated at age 11 months and since then has been walking and running on artificial legs — ran right past us. By the time he received the baton as anchor, his team from South Africa was far behind the eventual leaders from Bahamas. But he ran with perseverance and determination. And we cheered. Eighty thousand of us cheered. We did not cheer out of sympathy. We cheered (at least I did) because Oscar had not let any one or any thing get in the way of his dreams. His struggles to compete in the "able-bodied" Olympics has been well documented. Too many people thought his artificial legs may give him an advantage. In the end, he qualified for the men's 400m semi-final and his team ran in the 4x400m final. And we cheered. What gave him the strength to keep going beyond all odds? What gave him the courage to compete not just in track but in the courts? I'm convinced that comes from one place — hope. Hope comes from love, and love comes from HOME.

Home is that place of connection and acceptance. Home is the place where you are allowed to mess up and still feel loved. In other words, home is where you cheer for each other. Home is missing for so many people I know in downtown London. They are "homeless."

I sat with Carl on a bench in the morning sunshine just outside of the Covent Garden Market. He recalled his past — his family that moved around many times because of dad's job. "I never really settled down." He shared how he hit the streets at 15, made his way to Toronto and been "pretty much every where" since. He ended up in London because he met someone online and came here for the promise of a relationship. That promise like so many things in Carl's life faded. "What's the plan?" I asked him. The words hung there. The wind picked up — with just a taste of the autumn cool. "The plan? – this is the plan…I do this" motioning to the bench, "…that's it." No home. No love. No hope. And I wonder how it would be different to just have a few of the eighty thousand cheering for Carl.

I get it. Reading the Gospels it is impossible to miss. It is so evident. The fact that people miss it has spurred on many movements within the church. The “it” is this: Nobody should be excluded from your church!

Your front doors MUST BE (according to the way I understand scripture) wide open. We must allow anyone to be part of our community. The implications are the challenge, right? The church community will (hopefully) shift with each person coming in. Not that we shift who we follow in Jesus, or give up His commands. But if Jesus’ incarnation is actually lived out in each person in our community, that incarnation will have a slightly (or sometimes radically) different feel with each new person added to the community.

And frankly, I get that—theoretically. Practically, it’s not easy. But there is one implication to an open front door we are working out in our community in London—if we are to have an open front door, we must also have an open back door.

Christine was new to our drop-in. She was easy to talk to but very nervous. I noticed a bright bruise around her right eye. Whenever my questions approached her black eye, she quickly changed the topic. For some reason, she stayed into the evening. She didn’t really want to learn cartooning (the topic I was teaching for our art class that night). So she worked away at her scrap book. She pulled out papers, letters, and mementos from different moments in her life – all to make a wonderful design. She spoke up a little as she worked, feeling more comfortable as the evening wore on. Near the end of the night she went out for a smoke. I followed her just to chat some more.

“I never get to do any of that stuff with my friends. They think its all garbage and tell me to put it away,” said Christine.

“You are an artist. You have a real gift,” I told her.

“An artist, hah! Nah, I’m just foolin’ around,” Christine deflected.

“No, trust me, I used to teach high school art. You have a real gift.”

“An artist.Wow. Nobody ever called me an artist. You think so?”

It was an amazing night. We had made a connection. Other people in our community had welcomed Christine as well. It was wonderful to see someone in obvious pain receive intentional love. I have not seen Christine since.

Many people have come and gone during five years of doing this type of ministry. Our experience with Christine highlights what we’ve learned. Not everyone will stay. Why don’t they stay? It might hurt too much to be reminded of intimacy. It might be too hard to open up. Maybe we were too warm. Maybe we were too cold. Maybe, she just doesn’t like me.

I’ll never learn which “maybe” it is. But I have learned to give that person back to Christ. I need to trust that we are not the only community Jesus has going. We are not everything to everyone. But if we have an open front door, we need to allow that back door to be open too. Some people may not fit. And I need to trust that it’s okay for them to leave knowing that God is still working in their lives.

Just yesterday I pulled out the old mountain bike and took a ride to a small town just outside of London, to visit a man who was inquiring about the work of Sanctuary.  It was an absolutely beautiful ride down country roads.  The sun was shining bright, and the humidity was no longer in the air on this fine August afternoon.  After a half hour or so of peddling, I pulled up to the address. 

There he was, standing in his front yard, scissors in hand, cutting blossoms off his Rose of Sharon tree.  He immediately met me at the top of the driveway with a warm welcome, and I thought to myself, "this must be what it feels like to visit your grandfather"…  He invited me in, and we made small talk about the nice ride up, and about ministry.  Before long, he was going into great detail about his years of service in the Royal Canadian Air Force, and about how he met his wife on the coast of British Colombia.

With a bit of a sigh he told me that he had to say good-bye to his vehicle about a month ago.  "Ever since the year I retired, I would take that car on a trip every year, first to Newfoundland to visit my grandchildren there, then to BC to visit my grandchildren there.  I just hope, now that I don't have my car, that they'll come every once in a while to come see me."

And then he got down to the real reason for his inquiry.  "I've heard a little about Sanctuary, and I believe it is one of the great works of the city of London.  I may be shut-in, but at 88 years old, i am still learning.  I am learning about people in need in this city, and I want to make a difference.  That is why I want to support your ministry…  I just need help filling out the paperwork."

With the paperwork done, we continued to chat a while longer.  As it became time to leave he rose and gave me a big hug.  Following me out the door, he looked up to the sky and smiled.  "On a perfect day like today," he said, "my deepest desire is to bring flowers home to my beautiful wife.  But since I can't do that, it would mean a lot to me if you would bring these flowers home to your wife."  And he handed me the cup of blossoms he was cutting when I first arrived.

As I rode away, I imagined going back to a simpler time (the old fashioned country farmhouse made that pretty easy), when the pace of life was slower, and all that really mattered was gathering enough firewood to stay warm through the night, and caring for each other.  Smiling, i held tight to the cup of flowers in my hand and raced off, excited to share this adventure with my wife.

Click on the image above to hear Sanctuary's latest story from the street!  Are your eyes open to see Christ in the most unexpected places…  In the most unlikely people?