The recent execution-style killing--apparently by members of his own gang--of 11-year-old Robert Sandifer, himself a murder suspect, gave Chicago residents and the rest of the country ample opportunity to reflect on life and death in the inner city. Soon after that murder I visited Chicago's North Lawndale section, where the jagged, broken windows of the graffiti-scarred abandoned buildings offer sinister gap-toothed sneers to passersby, and there seems to be one vacant, trashewn lot for every two occupied residences. Lawndale, on the city's southwest side, has been deserted by many of its citizens: the community's population has shrunk by about half over the past few decades. The death of this once-thriving neighborhood can be smelled in the urine-stained back alleys and seen in the small clusters of dope dealers on street corners.
But there is life here too. The neighborhood is home to the Lawndale Community Church, a nondenominational evangelical congregation of about 300 parishioners (roughly 80 percent are black, 20 percent white). They have found new life in living out the simple slogan displayed on every church bulletin and brochure: "Love God, Love People."
Walking down the hallway toward the sanctuary, I noticed about eight African-American men and women, mostly young, praying in a tight circle. The group dispersed as I entered the room, and its members began to wind meditatively through rows of folding chairs, praying over them for the people who would soon arrive for worship. During the service, I'd guess at least 50 of those chairs held children.
One chair was filled by the principal of a local grammar school, a 60-something, neatly attired black man with graying beard. At prayer time, Pastor Carey Casey, an athletic black man in his late 30s, beckoned the principal and students to the altar. He bluntly warned the children that "this is serious, and I don't want no talking or fooling around." His sober tone contrasted with the earlier exuberant singing, and the congregation quieted as Casey spoke of the "special burden" he had felt listening to news accounts of Robert Sandifer because he himself has an 11-year-old son. So does the white copastor of the church, Wayne Gordon. And judging from the tears on many mothers' faces, so do other families in this close-knit congregation.
Casey called the deacons forward to lay hands on the children; school was due to start in just three days, and he wanted to pray for their safety. He exhorted the children to make wise choices, to flee the path Robert Sandifer had taken.
Talk of choices came up often in my conversations with members of the church. "Young black boys growing up in this neighborhood have so few choices; it's really rough," one lady told me. The church's presence, though, has expanded the choices. Casey's preaching exhorts youth to take responsibility. As he prayed on Sunday: "God, help these children to use their brains and not be lazy or tardy."
Here, limited options are not considered an excuse for failing to take initiative. One Sunday school banner pictures an open Bible and quotes 2 Timothy 2:15, "Study to show thyself approved." Education is preached at Lawndale Community Church, and the church's after-school tutoring program, computer-laden "learning center," and college opportunity mentoring-scholarship program help make high school and even college graduation an attainable aspiration. According to one church member, at any given time the church has up to 40 young people studying in college. In a neighborhood where the high school drop-out rate reaches 50 percent, this is no small miracle.
The possibility for a life apart from racially based and gang-based hate is also preached at Lawndale. The Sunday I visited, Casey taught from Luke 6:27-29 on loving your enemies. Beyond his words, though, is the visible witness of Lawndale's racially integrated congregation and the unique shared pastorate of Casey and Gordon. Driving through Lawndale one afternoon, I saw two black youngsters roller skating--sort of--along the sidewalk. They had only one oversized pair of roller skates between them, so each had one skate on and treated it like a scooter. The delight on their faces contrasted with the poverty the single pair of roller skates revealed; the scene spoke of resource-fulness and challenge and sharing.
Casey and Gordon seem to have divided up the pastorate with similar creativity: as "Shepherding Pastor," Casey watches over the flock, while Gordon, as "Outreach Pastor," oversees the church's many community ministries. The example of their friendship and shared leadership demonstrates the possibilities of racial reconciliation in a neighborhood where (as I was told by a bleary-eyed informant in whispers outside the local laundromat) some white police officers had recently beaten up a black man in an apartment a few blocks down from the church.
To make everyone feel welcome, the church has deliberately promoted casual attire on Sundays. I was amazed at the impact something this simple has had on residents. Vanessa Moore, who has been a member of the church since 1979, told me: Most of the churches here in the black community, they put an emphasis on dress, money, and if you don't have a nice wardrobe or a nice hat or a nice car or plenty of money to put in the offering box, you know, you kinda stand out. The thing that impressed me most about Lawndale was that they never passed the offering plate and you came as you were. If you only had jeans to wear, you wore jeans. If you had shorts to wear, you wore shorts.
There is a good bit of talk among the staff at Lawndale about sensitively responding to "felt needs" in the community. But his sensitivity has not degenerated into a schmaltzy, therapeutic celebration of self-esteem; it's grounded in a Christian understanding of self-denial. During Sunday morning worship, one of the choruses proclaimed, "Let's forget about ourselves, and concentrate on Him, and worship Him."
Chaplain Leo Barbee, who runs the church's substance-abuse and other counseling ministries, takes what is perhaps a "therapeutically incorrect" approach: he asks people to get beyond "victim" status. He befriended one young woman who had been sexually abused from the time she was five until she was 19. After many sessions with Barbee, this woman chose to dedicate her life to Christ and to forgive those who had violated her. Says Barbee in a gentle voice, "I have to stand on the word of God. It says that if we don't forgive those who sin against us, then God won't forgive us." As a former crack addict himself, Barbee argues that total self-surrender is required to conquer drugs. Sometimes users are "just sorry, [but] they're not ready to repent. They're sorry about last night, but they're really not ready to give up."
Thomas Worthy, director of the church's job training program, has a similarly realistic view of human nature. Worthy asks tough questions of his students--why they want to work and whether they have a budget--and requires them, on the first day, to complete a job application like those used by Fortune 500 companies. "Obedience [to God's word] is the number one thing I push," Worthy states. Lawndale's programs teach that true life requires responsibility, sacrificial love and Christlikeness.
Lawndale's proclamation of life was perhaps most powerfully visible in its remembrance of Christ's death during the simple communion rite which concluded the worship service. There, the One who had served, forgiven his enemies, lived in perfect obedience, and laid down his life was celebrated. Individuals streamed by the bread and wine in single file, anomalous lights in the midst of the dark ghetto: married black men, working ex-cons, single moms freed from welfare dependency, healed addicts and ex-gang members. Even as Robert Sandifer was mourned in south Chicago, there was reason in Lawndale to ask, "Oh death, where is thy victory?"
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