church: an outside entrance created on Hill Street where the old coal chutes used to be together with the private kitchen meant that no homeless woman need ever come upstairs to the main buildings.
Once Hagar’s House was up and running, the reality of their client population dismayed many church members. For one thing, some of the women drank. When parishioners were singing hymns and laughing as they scrubbed the cellars, they had never imagined drunks—they’d pictured clean well-groomed women, down on their luck, humbly grateful to the church for providing them with shelter, praising Jesus and thanking His servants, the Orleans Street Church.
The parish council forbade alcohol within the shelter—it was never allowed on church property, anyway, not even for communion, when the elders served grape juice to the congregation—and they ordered Patsy Wanachs to bar the door to anyone who arrived drunk.
Even more shocking, some of the women were prostitutes: Patsy Wanachs reported that their pimps came around demandingto see them. The church’s own doorman, faithful old Ronald Hemphill, was slapped one night by one of the pimps demanding entry at the main gate.
At that point there was a strong movement to shut the shelter altogether. The trouble was, Sylvia Lenore supported Hagar’s House. The great-granddaughter of the original Geoffrey Lenore, Sylvia continued the family presence in the front center pew of the church, served on the parish council, and—as Rafe Lowrie grumbled to the head pastor—had depressingly progressive politics. If she’d had to earn that inheritance herself, Rafe and his cohorts agreed, she wouldn’t be so free in handing it out.
Pastor Emerson was hard pressed to keep both the Lowrie and Lenore factions in his congregation satisfied. Like many large downtown churches, Orleans Street contained both young fundamentalists, who tended to be social conservatives, along with older members who were more liberal both in doctrine and on social issues.
Sylvia Lenore, who’d been baptized at Orleans Street fifty-six years ago, had been reared in a progressive tradition: her father marched with Dr. King in Memphis and Marquette Park, her grandmother ran a settlement house out of the church’s Sunday school rooms. Sylvia and Rafe clashed over every issue before the parish, from Hagar’s House to the organ fund.
One night, in a particularly heated discussion of Hagar’s House, Sylvia preached (raved, Rafe Lowrie muttered) about the church’s duty to the widow and orphan. Which brought Mrs. Ephers to her feet in turn: Are these widows? she demanded. They’re like the woman in the Gospel of John, who had five so-called husbands, but was never married to any of them.
A ripple of laughter went through Lowrie’s faction. Pastor Emerson got up to propose a compromise before Sylvia or any of her furious supporters could respond. He could ill afford to alienate Sylvia Lenore—her hundred-thousand-dollar annual pledge was an important part of the church’s budget. Besides, in his heart, whichhe tried to keep hidden from the fifteen-hundred-plus members of the congregation, the pastor found Sylvia and her friends easier to work with than Rafe Lowrie. He didn’t always agree with her, but Sylvia didn’t phone him at two in the morning to harangue him when they differed. As Rafe had. Many times.
Keep Hagar’s House open, the pastor urged: The congregation had put far too much into starting it to shut it so soon. Give the shelter a full year, but let someone try to bring the Gospel to the homeless.
After another half hour of dickering, the entire parish council agreed to the proposal and the pastor breathed more easily. Sylvia knew that the longer she could keep the shelter running, the harder it would be to close it down, while Rafe was ecstatic at the opportunity to show Emerson-the right way to run a Bible study meeting.
Rafe’s supporters also relaxed: If the women were praying regularly, and
Once Hagar’s House was up and running, the reality of their client population dismayed many church members. For one thing, some of the women drank. When parishioners were singing hymns and laughing as they scrubbed the cellars, they had never imagined drunks—they’d pictured clean well-groomed women, down on their luck, humbly grateful to the church for providing them with shelter, praising Jesus and thanking His servants, the Orleans Street Church.
The parish council forbade alcohol within the shelter—it was never allowed on church property, anyway, not even for communion, when the elders served grape juice to the congregation—and they ordered Patsy Wanachs to bar the door to anyone who arrived drunk.
Even more shocking, some of the women were prostitutes: Patsy Wanachs reported that their pimps came around demandingto see them. The church’s own doorman, faithful old Ronald Hemphill, was slapped one night by one of the pimps demanding entry at the main gate.
At that point there was a strong movement to shut the shelter altogether. The trouble was, Sylvia Lenore supported Hagar’s House. The great-granddaughter of the original Geoffrey Lenore, Sylvia continued the family presence in the front center pew of the church, served on the parish council, and—as Rafe Lowrie grumbled to the head pastor—had depressingly progressive politics. If she’d had to earn that inheritance herself, Rafe and his cohorts agreed, she wouldn’t be so free in handing it out.
Pastor Emerson was hard pressed to keep both the Lowrie and Lenore factions in his congregation satisfied. Like many large downtown churches, Orleans Street contained both young fundamentalists, who tended to be social conservatives, along with older members who were more liberal both in doctrine and on social issues.
Sylvia Lenore, who’d been baptized at Orleans Street fifty-six years ago, had been reared in a progressive tradition: her father marched with Dr. King in Memphis and Marquette Park, her grandmother ran a settlement house out of the church’s Sunday school rooms. Sylvia and Rafe clashed over every issue before the parish, from Hagar’s House to the organ fund.
One night, in a particularly heated discussion of Hagar’s House, Sylvia preached (raved, Rafe Lowrie muttered) about the church’s duty to the widow and orphan. Which brought Mrs. Ephers to her feet in turn: Are these widows? she demanded. They’re like the woman in the Gospel of John, who had five so-called husbands, but was never married to any of them.
A ripple of laughter went through Lowrie’s faction. Pastor Emerson got up to propose a compromise before Sylvia or any of her furious supporters could respond. He could ill afford to alienate Sylvia Lenore—her hundred-thousand-dollar annual pledge was an important part of the church’s budget. Besides, in his heart, whichhe tried to keep hidden from the fifteen-hundred-plus members of the congregation, the pastor found Sylvia and her friends easier to work with than Rafe Lowrie. He didn’t always agree with her, but Sylvia didn’t phone him at two in the morning to harangue him when they differed. As Rafe had. Many times.
Keep Hagar’s House open, the pastor urged: The congregation had put far too much into starting it to shut it so soon. Give the shelter a full year, but let someone try to bring the Gospel to the homeless.
After another half hour of dickering, the entire parish council agreed to the proposal and the pastor breathed more easily. Sylvia knew that the longer she could keep the shelter running, the harder it would be to close it down, while Rafe was ecstatic at the opportunity to show Emerson-the right way to run a Bible study meeting.
Rafe’s supporters also relaxed: If the women were praying regularly, and
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