Pastor John Van Sloten

We were sitting in the Fats Bar and Grill on Tenth Street when he did something unforgettably beautiful. Half an hour earlier I was preaching a sermon on how the city is a refuge for the last, least and the lost, and he was dumpster diving just outside of our church doors…

His name was Gord, and our beers had just arrived at the table, without coasters.

At first I didn’t know what he was doing as he searched through several of the pockets of several of the layers of clothing he was wearing. But then he found a neatly folded handful of white paper towel pieces. Taking one he folded it into quarters and placed it under his beer glass. Then he did the same for me. I don’t know why but it felt like a holy moment. He was taking from what was his, and via the sacrament of a shared meal, giving unto me. His fingers were a grimy black, so filthy next to the paper towel pieces. They moved very slowly and deliberately; perhaps still frozen from the hours he’d been out in that morning’s blizzard. Separating just one piece of paper towel from the rest for me; knowing that his new found friend should never drink a beer without a coaster.

That had to be my first experience of homeless hospitality. How deeply humbling.

You see, as I came out of the church – when I first saw him there – all I really wanted to do was give him some change. But I had none. So I got in my car and left. I had to go shopping for a gourmet meal we were having with friends later that night. But I couldn’t get a 100 metres down the road without thinking, “You’ve got to help this guy John, it’s freezing outside.” So I turned around, parked, and asked him if he’d wait there for a second while I go to the ATM; but for some reason the stupid machine didn’t work either. Finally I gave in, went back to him and said, “Wanna go for lunch?”

He rode his bottle and can laden bicycle there (in a snow storm) and I drove. As I waited for him to arrive I couldn’t help recall what I’d just preached, especially the point about how urban diversity has the potential to enlarge us. Living in a city – the epicentre and epitome of difference – you can do one of two things with the vast diversity you face; you can separate and stereotype others and keep them at arms length – leaving yourself small and in control, or you can engage the difference head on – get past your uncomfortableness, move beyond your camp mentality, and humbly have a conversation over lunch.

Whatever the difference is – sociological, racial, economic, educational, political – there’s nothing that genuine face to face interaction can’t draw closer; if you let it. And it’s true; you do become a bigger person. More like God. More in the image of the one who made you; inclusive, gracious, full of loving kindness and mercy, deeply passionate for all kinds of people (people he made!).

In that morning’s sermon I mentioned how God’s concept of the city taught me more about who God is. I’ve always thought I had a fairly decent understanding the Trinity; fully one and yet distinctly three different persons, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. But the city shed more light on what the Trinity really means; especially on the ‘distinct’ side of things. Recognizing the diversity of the city (and the world for that matter) got me thinking that the three persons of the Trinity may be infinitely distinct from one another, even as they are wholly one. I’ve always considered them somewhat distinct; still fairly similar, not all that different. But who says that’s true? Perhaps the power of the Trinitarian definition of the nature of God lies in the fact of infinite diversity in complete unity?

That makes the city one of the most compelling teachers of who God is. And it helps me understand why He would describe heaven with urban terms; with the glory of all the nations, all peoples represented there. All at the same time, in the same place; preachers and bottle pickers included.