She usually arrived midway through the morning worship service, attired in three or four dresses, an apron, and a coat. Her red wig, often off to one side, was usually secured by a tight-fitting knit cap, even in summer. She resembled an older, slightly frail Munchkin from the mythical land of Oz.
Stealthily, she would seek a seat near the back of the sanctuary. As she did, coats and Bibles would seem to sprout alongside the other worshipers, occupying any vacant seats. Undaunted, Katie would keep looking, a large shopping bag dangling from each hand, until she found a row with an empty seat, usually near the front or beside a first-time visitor. Setting her two bags in the aisle, she would kneel, cross herself, then pick up her bags, rustle past the other parishioners, and nest.
During the remainder of the service, she would gesture eccentrically and mumble comments either to her neighbors or toward the pastor. At the conclusion of the service, she would strike a pose of reverent prayer before leaving quickly and quietly.
Then came the Sunday with a special program and Communion. The church was nearly full. Katie, in her familiar attire but with one addition-combat boots-could find only an aisle seat in the second row from the front. She proceeded with her usual gesturing, rustling, and mumbling until the Communion service began. At that time, she became very reverent and still.
The deacon serving her row extended the tray of bread pieces past Katie to the next person, from whence it proceeded toward the other end. Katie looked around, bewildered, then shrugged, reached into one of her shopping bags, and pulled out a loaf of bread. She offered some to her neighbors (who politely refused), took a whole slice for herself, and placed the remaining loaf back in her bag. She held her bread until all partook together.
I was the new pastor, trying valiantly to learn the names and faces of my new inner-city congregation. Katie hadn’t been at the top of my list; but in those few moments during Communion, she worked her way into my heart forever. The moment she offered her bread to others, I knew this church and its pastor had a lot to learn from Katie. That morning, I served her the Communion cup personally, and at the last amen I dashed to the back of the church to greet her officially before she left.
The following Sunday, it was obvious Katie was distraught. Throughout the service, she flashed some official-looking envelopes toward the pulpit with her right hand, while slapping her forehead with the back of her left hand, feigning a dead faint. After the benediction, I went to find out what was wrong-but before getting to her, Evelyn, a frequent resident of the nearby mental-health facility, had pulled off Katie’s wig and told her we should not try and hide things in the house of God.
It took a long time to calm Katie down, and most of the congregation avoided both of us that morning. Katie showed me her papers from the welfare department. They stated she owed six thousand dollars, and the authorities were terminating her financial assistance and proceeding with litigation.
It was difficult to gather all the facts, because Katie’s verbal skills were severely impaired. We talked again that week, and I could see this was going to be a time-consuming process. But what did those Scriptures mean that said, “Comfort the feebleminded, support the weak, be patient toward all men” (1 Thess. 5:14)? What about Jesus’ warning to those who ignore the stranger, the hungry, the sick? And then there was “Let brotherly love continue. Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares” (Heb. 13:1-2).
Granted, some strangers are stranger than others-but how could I brush off Katie? How could our church “comfort the feebleminded” unless we had some of them in our midst, shopping bags and all? As pastor, I would have to set an example.
I spent whole days arduously piecing together her life story and the sequence of circumstances that had put her at odds with the government. I spent days of equal arduousness trying to communicate with the automatons at the Department of Human Services.
Katie was born in Germany on Good Friday, 1905. When asked her exact birth date, she says, “It changes every year.” That is why her birth date is listed differently on almost every document. The date she gave depended upon the year they asked.
Katie was born hard of hearing and tongue-tied-literally. No one discovered her tongue problem until she was fourteen years old. Her mother then took sewing scissors and snipped the under part of her tongue, freeing it for the first time in her life. Katie’s family had come to America when she was three, and she had lived with her parents until her mother passed away in 1938. She spent the next thirty-three years in institutions for the retarded. Then someone discovered her hearing loss, fitted her with a hearing aid, realized she wasn’t retarded, and released her. She had been on her own for twelve years.
Katie is a very wise woman with severe language impairment and social-skill deprivation. However, she was able to secure a job stuffing and sealing envelopes. Over a period of years she had accumulated seven thousand dollars. When the welfare department found out about her “funeral fund,” they put in their claim for “overpayment” and severed all benefits.
It took nearly a year to get Katie’s finances in order. During that period, our family adopted her. For the past two years she has joined us for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Often on Sunday evenings, we have driven her to her residence at a local senior center for indigents. It was on one of these rides home that Katie began to warble the old gospel song “I’ll Live for Him Who Died for Me.”
I asked Katie where she had learned the song. Katie replied, “I just now remembered it. My mother used to sing it to me.” We used the message of the song to introduce Katie to a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.
Later, I interviewed Katie from the pulpit. With help she shared her life story and her experience of salvation in Christ. She concluded by saying, “I can talk a lot better now because you people talk to me. No one ever talked to me before.” Immediately, by acclamation, Katie was adopted by the entire congregation.
Now when Katie comes to church, people clear a nearby seat, hoping she will choose to sit near them. Members often offer to bring her to church or take her home. She is regularly invited to homes and restaurants. With the help of the congregation she has been moved into her own apartment, no longer bothered by senile men in boxer shorts.
Katie dresses more appropriately now and often brings only one shopping bag. On special occasions, there’s just a purse. She isn’t simply a recipient of our Christian benevolence. She is an integral part of the body of Christ. Didn’t Paul write, “Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it” (1 Cor. 12:27)?
One Sunday morning the elders were called forward to lay hands on a very ill infant. Katie solemnly rose to join the elders as they prayed. Her simplicity and sincerity brought tears to many eyes.
The baby recovered rapidly. As a congregation we discovered that when Katie prays, God answers.
We cried again during a fellowship hour when, after singing “Happy Birthday” to her, she saw the cake with lighted candles and said, “My mother made me one of those once.”
Katie has taken a lot of our time, but she has touched our lives, made us think, and made us laugh. Her involvement isn’t always appropriate; however, she has an uncanny ability to discern people’s true motives and spirit. She needs to learn not to point, make faces, and say, “He’s a bad man; I don’t like him; he’s going to hell. He doesn’t have Jesus in his heart.” We are still teaching her to wait her turn and not interrupt the conversations of others. Discipline is part of love, and Katie has had to be corrected often. Through our acceptance and tolerance we have earned the right to correct her in love. Using the words appropriate and inappropriate, we have taught her to wear one dress at a time, make and keep appointments, and listen quietly during church.
Yet any time I want to chuckle, I think of how Katie often slips into Chicago City Hall courtrooms during the lunch recess, sits in the judge’s chair, and pretends to be a magistrate. Or how, when approached on the street for money, she makes funny faces and noises- … la David drooling at the gates of Gath-so people will think she is crazy and leave her alone. I even wonder if our church is getting to be like David’s ragtag army of “all those who were in distress or in debt or discontented” (1 Sam. 22:2).
Yet God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, so that no one may boast before him. God chose Katie. He chose you and me. The more we realize our lack of qualification, the more we admit that none of us deserves esteem in the kingdom, the more we are freed to love, to give, to share.
And that is why I say, not entirely in jest: Every church needs a bag lady.
-Dennis Sawyer
Philadelphia Church
Chicago, Illinois
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