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Homelessness/Housing
The following article originally appeared in Salt of the Earth. It is posted here for private use only. It may not be reprinted in whole or in part without the permission of Salt of the Earth magazine.
A. B. Short
Thea Kielt Jarvis interviews A.B. Short
A.B. (ARTHUR BURT) SHORT GREW UP AS A CHILD of the Old South, where racial and social boundaries were clearly drawn. Breaching those boundaries, he eventually found a lifestyle "compatible with my faith perspective." Short answered the gospel call he heard "to build bridges and be in relationship with the poor." He founded the Community of Hospitality in Atlanta, which includes the nation's first restaurant for the homeless and a recovery program.
His Cafe 458 has inspired similar restaurants in Chicago, New York, and many other cities. "We provide a service to the homeless," says Short, "but at the same time we have something to learn and receive from them if we listen and pay attention."
AS A SALES REP FOR A MAJOR TRANSPORTATION company in the late 1970s, I was living the middle-class dream. I had a new home in the Jackson, Mississippi suburbs, a ski boat for weekends, two cars, and the first Weedeater on the block. I was a "good old boy," taking customers to dinner and ball games, telling jokes, drinking too much.
But it took its toll physically and spiritually. I got tired of waking up in the morning feeling like I had a dirty sock in my mouth. Corporate life had become a nightmare.
When the Pearl River flooded and volunteers were needed to make sandwiches for prisoners sandbagging the levee in Jackson, I went to the Salvation Army and put mayonnaise on bread. People were working and laughing together, a real community. That one night of making sandwiches rekindled the calling I had felt at age 16.
I GREW UP IN MERIDIAN, MISSISSIPPI in a neighborhood of poor rural whites and blacks. There I witnessed racism and acts of violence against blacks that affected me deeply. The owner of the convenience store on the next block was indicted for providing the gloves the Klan used in killing the three civil-rights workers in Philadelphia, Mississippi.
Another neighbor was involved in the actual murders.
I was the first in my extended family to graduate from high school, go to college, and earn a master's degree. After college, I went straight to Baptist seminary to become a pastor. It was at the height of the civil-rights movement, and I felt theologically and politically different from other seminary students.
In 1980 I decided to take a position as marketing director for the Atlanta Community Food Bank. Here in Atlanta I found kindred spirits, people struggling to integrate their faith with the way they lived out their lives. At Oakhurst Baptist Church, a group of us opened a winter shelter for the homeless, and we began meeting for prayer and reflection. We studied the writings of Dorothy Day, Jean Vanier, Henri Nouwen, and liberation theology and talked about starting a hospitality ministry.
The philosophy we developed there became the basis for the Community of Hospitality (COH) and Cafe 458: keep it small and focus on relationships.
LIKE MOST PEOPLE, WHEN SOMEBODY on the street asked me for a handout, I used to not know whether to give money. I used to cross the street just to avoid the uncomfortable interaction.
But when you develop relationships with poor or devalued people, your life changes, too. Sleeping on the floor next to homeless people at Oakhurst, having breakfast with them, hearing their stories, their humor, they became individuals with names.
Many had backgrounds similar to mine, common interests, stuff to talk about. I was drawn to them. Matthew 25 became my foundation: "Insofar as you do this to the least of my brothers, you do it to me."
IN 1982 I BOUGHT AN OLD HOUSE AND INVITED some Oakhurst guests to help renovate it and move there with my wife and me. Eventually others came to live and share the work. COH was modeled on Dorothy Day's Catholic Worker house: a place of unconditional acceptance and love.
Cafe 458 grew out of my conversations with Atlanta Food Bank chairman Bob Freeman. As a soup-kitchen volunteer, Bob regretted the lack of opportunities for interaction with the homeless. "What I really enjoy is going out and having dinner, sitting and chatting over a glass of tea or cup of coffee," I had told Bob. "It would be neat if homeless and non-homeless people could do that together."
We envisioned a space that wouldn't segregate the homeless, an operation that from all appearances would be like a commercial restaurant, a place where people could focus on resources that would help them take the next step in a new life. The end product wasn't food. Food was simply a reason to get together and do the work.
A boarded-up building at 458 Edgewood Avenue seemed ideal. Built in the late '40s as a drive-through liquor store, it looked like an old diner. "That's the building," I said as soon as I saw it.
CAFE 458 OPENED IN 1988 with a "reservations only" policy. Without it, Atlanta's large homeless population—10,000 to 15,000—would have been lining up around the block. Reservations are made by referring social-service agencies, mental-health workers, or church volunteers. As long as a guest follows cafe guidelines, reservations are good for a month and renewed automatically.
COH is the residential staff support for the cafe, developing relationships with guests, listening to their stories, helping them set goals.
"If you're comfortable, tell me a little bit about yourself," they might ask. "Where do you want to go? What are your dreams?" Early on, it was probably a little invasive, offensive. It took a while to establish that we're not simply about food and that there is a powerful healing value in telling and hearing your story.
On our blackboard menu, we have a choice of two or three entrees, vegetables, and a salad, a couple of desserts and beverages. It's just like any other restaurant—fresh flowers on the table, waiters and waitresses—you just don't get a bill at the end of the meal. Every day we see the progress of individuals who begin to reclaim their lives. That's when we get our rewards.
FOUR YEARS AGO, CAFE 458 OPENED a residential treatment program based on the 12-step model of Alcoholics Anonymous. It's been the most exciting and important thing COH has done.
Cafe guests actively using alcohol and drugs weren't meeting their goals because the disease of addiction controlled their lives. The cafe was already offering legal and medical services, mental health counseling, haircuts, resumes. Why not expand the menu to include support for recovery?
Participants are asked to give us six months minimum without worrying about outside work. "We'll help you find a job," we tell them. "You work on getting healthy." Music classes, journal writing, theater, recreation, ethnic studies, Outward Bound help them discover their gifts and talents and recover self-esteem. Group support is crucial because, in my experience, recovery can only happen in community.
HOWARD WAS THE OLDEST TO ENTER the program, an alcohol and drug user who had never been in treatment. He was 48, illiterate, and had spent most of his life in prison. Now he's like a flower that's bloomed at 50, a beautiful person.
Howard had a hard time opening up, trusting the process. One day, when he was ready to walk out, I said, "Howard, this is nothing compared to prison. If you can put up with prison, you can put up with this." All of a sudden, it hit him. "Yeah, I can do this," he said. From then on, he began working on his problems. He wanted to succeed, to read, to be clean and sober.
After he graduated from the recovery program, Howard went to work as a custodian. He got an apartment—the first one he ever had—and a bicycle. He bought himself a TV and a VCR. I helped him put the VCR together and showed him how to use it. He has a little garden and brought some tomatoes by the other day. It's a whole new world for him.
JESUS TELLS THE STORY OF THE BANQUET. It's an invitation to come to the table, to participate in life. There's no coercion, and nobody can do it for you. The Community of Hospitality, Cafe 458, and the recovery program are like that—affirming, inviting, loving. The individuals have to do the hard work, but they have a place of acceptance where good things can happen, where they can throw off the chains of their bondage.
There are times when I ask myself, "Am I a fool? I don't have any investments, any retirement package. What happens if I get sick? What am I going to do when I 'grow up'?" But when I stop and think, I realize what's important to me. I've been on the other side, and I wasn't happy.—END
© 1997 by Claretian Publications