Aurora Commons: Showing Christ through Tangible 'Presence'

Bacon, eggs and potatoes were cooking in the People’s Kitchen at Aurora Commons in Seattle, Wash., on a chilly Monday morning in November.

As people lined up for breakfast, a man and woman sat and dozed, heads tilted toward each other, and another man was paging through a magazine on the large couch of this shelter that bills itself as a “community living room.” Basically a large, open room painted soft yellow with art on the walls, it is a comfortable and safe place to stay for a few hours three days a week.

Coming in the front door, Gene Northrope smelled the food cooking, but first he set down his bulky duffle bag, stripped off his coat and the two sweatshirts he wore to keep him warm the night before in a nearby park.

Rubbing his hands together, Northrope said he was hungry and planned to eat after he dug his dirty clothes out of his duffle bag to put in the free washer in the back room.

Allowing people to wash and dry their clothes for free, to take a shower, and to get socks and other items, Aurora Commons is a stand-alone outreach of Awake Christian Reformed Church, which meets next door in a Japanese restaurant on Sundays.

Aurora Commons is located on a stretch of Aurora Avenue not far from downtown Seattle, Wash. This area is known for its active sex industry, drug dealing, violence, and homelessness.

Founded by Awake’s first pastor Ben Katt and a few others, Aurora Commons opened in 2011. Staffed by volunteers from Awake and elsewhere, it has made itself a community home for those who live on or work on or near Aurora Avenue.

“The vision for the Commons grew out of the ministry of presence and neighborhood rootedness along Aurora Avenue of Awake's founding members, particularly the relationship-building and community development work that we  did along Aurora and in the motels,” said Katt. From the start, Awake Church and subsequently Aurora Commons have been supported in a variety of ways by Resonate Global Mission.

‘Soft-hearted people’

This morning, the shelter was buzzing with voices, the mix of sounds coming from the kitchen, and laughter. Out of the crowd emerged Robert, who came up to a visitor to show an envelope on which he had scrawled several phone numbers, one to the local FBI office, he said.

A slender man with sad eyes and a lined face, he talked for a few minutes, bouncing from topic to topic — a gas station clerk he had a crush on, a judge somewhere whom he didn’t like, his Uncle Ray to whom he owed money, how he’d like to go overseas to France next summer for vacation, and then something about George Washington having come to town.

Clearly dealing with some cognitive challenges, Robert was nonetheless very clear when asked how he liked coming to Aurora Commons: “They are good to us. When you walk in, they give you a smile. You know they are real soft-hearted people.”

Volunteers say kindness and a smile do go a long way at this low-barrier shelter, meaning it is open to everyone and has few rules people have to follow. At the heart of this place is a mission to create relationships.

“We want to have a face that people can recognize, and we want to be here to show hospitality that they can experience,” said Hayden Wartes, who was serving as a host today, circulating the room, greeting and checking in with people.

Taking a break, Wartes sat in a chair by the big picture window looking out on Aurora Avenue. At the Commons, she said, they seek to model the incarnational ministry of Christ, trying to show love, acceptance, patience, and compassion in the ways they relate to people.

Many who come here have been hurt in some way by organized religion, or they have never been connected to a church.

“Many of them would face barriers if they stepped into a church community of people who looked rich and fine,” said Wartes, who has been connected to Aurora Commons since it opened. “Many of the people who come here are estranged from their families. They feel ashamed about their lifestyle.”

The ministry at Awake is filled out through such things as a wound clinic held every week, an art program, a risk-reduction program for drug users, a support group for women, and a Monday-night gathering for men who at this time of year usually watch Monday Night Football on TV.

On serving at Aurora Commons as a host and in other ways, Wartes said, “Doing this is important to my own spiritual journey. I do a lot of listening to people who are suffering and don’t have someone who can listen to them talk about their trauma.”

Ministry in the Motels

The idea to open something like the Commons began a few years back when Ben Katt, along with Karen Cirulli and Jay Stringer, two early leaders in the church, were drawn to the Aurora Avenue area as place to do ministry.

They visited people living in the motels scattered up and down what was once the main thoroughfare coming out of and into Seattle — before construction of nearby I-5. In the motels, they found sex workers living, some of them the victims of violence, and poor families who had no food nor any other place to go.

Stringer, a mental health worker, got deeply involved trying to help the sex workers and the men who exploit them. Cirulli worked closely as a community chaplain to those living in the area. Katt worked in each of those areas. Out of those connections came Awake Church and then backyard BBQs that Awake hosted, led by Cirulli, at the home of Andy Carlson, now pastor of Awake, and his wife, Lisa.

Meeting with and getting to know people living in the area in this way confirmed the need for a ministry such as  the Commons — a place for those who had many needs that weren’t being met by other groups and organizations and who, for that matter, were skeptical of those who might want to help them.

“The idea for the Commons grew as we become more familiar with the area and the needs that we at Awake could try to fill,” said Katt.

The Reality of Life on Aurora Avenue

Outside after breakfast, Gene Northrope lights a cigarette and looks at a woman who, arms folded across her chest, is pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. Clearly agitated, she has two black eyes and bruises on her face. Her blonde hair is disheveled.

Northrope said the man who recently beat her so badly has not been arrested by the police. But that doesn’t surprise him. “Lots of times women will tell the police they they’ve been beat up and who it is was . . . but the cops won’t believe them. The guys get away.”

Overhearing him, the woman shouts: “Why don’t you believe me?!” Then she storms off down the sidewalk. Later, once Aurora Commons is closed for the day, she will return, and one of the volunteers, Lisa Etter Carlson, will sit and talk with her for a long time.

“Hey,” said Northrope, stubbing out his cigarette. “I didn’t say I didn’t believe her. . . . Man, life is tough out here. You have to watch out all the time.”

Going back inside and sitting at a table, Northrope didn’t talk about what he had to watch out for, but he did say he grew up in Lynnwood, a city outside Seattle, and that he has been homeless for a long time.

“I like it in here,” he said of the Commons. “People can come in to get real food. There is a computer available for anyone who asks. They meet us at our level. These are good people with good intentions who work here.”

Asked if he went to church or prayed, he shook his head. “I think sometimes God walked away from us when he wiped most of the people out with the water” (referring to the Great Flood in Gen. 7).

As for prayer, he said, “I think sometimes God answers prayer. So I guess I think he’s there. But I don’t believe he interferes with us. I don’t believe in divine intervention. I think he just leaves us to live with the consequences of our choices.”

Sacred Conversation

A couple of blocks from Aurora Commons is a small complex of tiny homes, each containing one room in which to sleep. Outside is a community bathroom.

Since she moved into one of those homes with a man named Joe a few weeks before, Marlys Anderson sleeps on a pad on the floor by the door. While Joe spends much of the day watching TV, she likes to walk over to Aurora Commons.

Sitting at a long table, Marlys said she enjoys the food and the chance to talk to others: “I like to talk a lot. It helps to calm my anxiety. It feels good to be here. It makes me feel good when people are nice to me, especially when you have health problems like I do.”

Marlys’s heart acts up, she said, and her legs hurt. She is prediabetic and has high blood pressure. Lately, she said, she has had a hard time eating because she lost her dentures.

She also said she has been homeless for a long time, and she shared stories of staying on shelter mattresses that had bed bugs and lice.

But she keeps moving on in a journey that has taken her to places she never imagined, like homeless camps where she had to be on the lookout for sexual predators. “Really, Seattle can be a wild place,” she said.

Still, she has hope. The day before, Sunday, she stopped in for the service at Awake Church. “I want to pray and read the Bible,” she said. “I’m trying to change; it is so hard. But anything is possible with God.”

Over by the coffee machine, Nick Bunning stood with his small pet bulldog, Lulu. Bunning is a mysterious guy. He has been featured in news articles as a highly successful architect in New York City. One of those stories called him “the most tattooed man in New York City.”

Bunning’s entire face and head are filled with ink drawings, and so are his back and his arms and legs. He is said to own property in Seattle. Why he was here that day, he said, is that a friend who comes here often invited him.

Bunning smiled as he looked around the big room with its long dining table, the colorful walls and paintings, and a large bookshelf, serving as lending library, packed with books on a wide range of topics.

“I adore it here. It is a great place,” he said. “I’ve seen missions where they bang religion at you. This is a simple place, sunny and warm. I’m so glad to see that they give the homeless respect.”

By 1 p.m., the day began winding down, although many of the men would be back at 6 p.m. to watch football. Zach Jenkins, an IT worker who lives nearby, said he planned to be there. For now, though, he was volunteering by chatting with visitors and helping to clean up after people have eaten.

As a volunteer, he has sometimes had to break apart people who were fighting outside, or calm down someone who was out of control, likely fueled by drugs or alcohol.

“It can get messy,” he said. “But I think this is something that Jesus would do — to be with those who are struggling — and we’re called to do it.”

Football, Pizza and Fellowship

Andy Carlson bustled around in the People’s Kitchen, unpacking ingredients for pizza for the Monday Night Men’s group.

During the day, this spacious shelter was brightly lit from the sun and lights. Now, it is dim; there is a less hectic feel.

Outside, a bitter wind was blowing and men were backed up at the door, peering in, obviously ready for some warmth, pizza and football.

“The Commons is an expression of our church,” said Carlson, pastor of Awake, as Zach Jenkins, who was volunteering earlier, opened the door.

As the men wandered in for Monday Night Football, which featured the Miami Dolphins against the Carolina Panthers, and sat on the couch and chairs, Carlson said, “Working down here, you pretty quickly get immersed in the community. Many people from Awake are deeply involved here. Doing this is very important for us.”

One of men who was here tonight was Vince, who likes to cook when he’s at the Commons. Before helping Andy get things ready,  he recalled how he walked by the Commons about three years ago and then decided to stop in. Since then, he has kept dropping in when he’s on this side of town. Right now, he comes in often, since he lives in one of the nearby tiny homes.

A jack of all trades, he likes to help out however he can and wherever he finds himself. Reflecting on his wandering, homeless lifestyle, Vince said it isn’t so bad. It could be worse. Plus, he said, having the Commons is good: “Without it, we’d be in trouble.”

Casey, who is 62 and grew up in St. Louis, Mo., has been dropping by ever since the Commons opened. He also has attended Awake Church -- and rarely misses a Monday night meeting. “I love Awake Church. They are beautiful people who go there.”

After getting the food ready and turning the football game on the big-screen TV, Andy Carlson sat down.

Looking around, he reflected a bit on the practical theology that motivates him and others in Awake Church. It’s Reformed theology that teaches that everything in the world is under God’s domain — and Christians are called to be part of it.

But it is a theology that makes wide room for others.

“A large number of the people we serve wouldn’t be part of a church if it weren’t for Awake,” said Carlson. “Many of them have found themselves on the fringes of Christianity. Some have been abused in different ways.”

As a result, Carlson said, Awake is part of a movement of church communities that believe making the gospel tangible is important. The Bible, of course, is key, but revealing Christ by your actions is what matters. Having a strong and ongoing relationship with Jesus and then acting out his message of love, in all of its facets, is what members of Awake try to do.

“We don’t see the Commons as an evangelistic tool,” said Carlson, a mild-mannered man whose hands are rough and calloused from making a living as a woodworker.

“What we do here is very much an expression of our faith. What we’ve discovered about discipleship in general is that it doesn’t go well when that is the endgame,” he said.

By working with people without homes, sex workers, and people with addictions, as well as anyone else who shows up, Awake is trying to be an example, said Carlson, “of how the Holy Spirit is actually moving.”

For him, working at the Commons, he said, allows him to see God moving in the interactions between volunteers and the people who come in.

“Deep faith is what I get by being here, but it is also something I need” to keep in tune with what the Holy Spirit is doing continually in the lives of so many people living, working, and passing by on Aurora Avenue, he said.