Where Only the Brave and the Addicted Dare Tread

From the closed second-story window of the Upper Room, a coffeehouse ministry at 41st Street and 8th Avenue in Manhattan, the pavement below seems to glitter as if speckled with thousands of tiny diamonds. The sidewalk’s sparkle is in keeping with the reputation of the New York theater district that surrounds it; the area is a colorful cornucopia of bright marquees, sequined gowns, and long, black limousines.

But cautiously descend the cracked, cement stairs, push open a heavy, metal door, and harsh reality roars in your face. The “diamonds” on the sidewalk are, ironically, another kind of treasure: crack vials—hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny glass containers that, moments before, held one of America’s most dangerous drugs. Look up from the sidewalk, and there, amid New York’s glamorous night life, one meets the denizens of the city’s seamy side.

In a nearby corner, a man urinates, then walks away, pants still unzipped, eyes glazed and wild. A stooped, wispy woman with a shiny, black rain hat smashed down over her ears paces while mumbling incoherently about welfare and someone named Ralph.

Across the street a teenage boy, wearing baggy shorts and a ripped, red T-shirt, slumps against the wall of the Port Authority bus terminal. He is sitting beside a piece of soiled cardboard, scrawled with a message: “AIDS—Can’t Work—Help Me.” Exhaust fumes from exiting buses and taxis swirl around him. He gags and retches.

No Strangers To The Heat

This is “Crack Alley,” crossroads of America’s drug traffic. Only the brave—or the addicted—dare tread here. It comes as no surprise that the pastor who cooked up the idea of a coffee house set in the middle of this frying pan in Hell’s Kitchen is no stranger to the heat.

The Upper Room was one of the first outreach ministries initiated by Times Square Church, located ten blocks up at 51st and Broadway, when it opened in October of 1987 (see CT, Feb. 5, 1988). The church’s pastor is David Wilkerson, well known as the author of the best-selling The Cross and the Switchblade, and founder of Teen Challenge, a successful Christian drug rehabilitation program.

Wilkerson’s vision grows out of his belief that America is, even now, under divine judgment. “The Upper Room is more than just an outreach to drug addicts and the homeless,” he says. “I believe it is a window of God’s grace to the church—a window that shows us he will take care of us when the trouble and hard times ahead come upon us in full force. If we who are just his servants care so much for the homeless and the broken, then how much more will he care for all of us, his children?”

Ministry In A Melting Pot

On this particular day at the Upper Room, Dana Machado, an attractive young woman with white-blond hair tied in a ponytail, is in the kitchen stirring a vat of eggs, preparing the Wednesday prayer breakfast. After the people eat, she explains, they will go back to the streets until afternoon, then return to eat sandwiches and coffee and to participate in a Bible study.

Dana rummages through the shelves looking for tomato paste for tomorrow’s spaghetti lunch. In her search she discovers some canned fruit and immediately empties it into a large pot of cooked Cream of Wheat.

When she passes the word that the food is almost ready, another worker opens the door. Human skeletons have been lined up outside for almost half an hour. As they slowly shuffle in, the room fills with a peculiar odor: an acrid mix of melting rubber soles, old sweat, and sickness.

A gap-toothed, elderly black man, wearing a tattered army jacket and ripped, black sneakers, smiles weakly and nods his thanks as the steaming food is delivered to his table.

Others slump, heads to one side, eyes closed, oblivious to both food and noise. But that seems not to matter to Bill Willis, who often teaches the Bible study in the afternoon and is delivering this morning’s devotional message.

“We don’t turn people away up here,” BiH says. “Everyone has a curiosity about Jesus. Especially hurting people. I give them a chance to see he’s real. I tell them to take their Bibles with them when they leave us and read and pray while they’re out on the streets—and then to come back to get some more. And they do.

“When we see changes in these people,” he adds, shaking his head in quiet awe, “they are really big changes. Night-and-day changes.”

De Roy Walden’s life is one of those night-and-day transformations. Homeless and a habitual crack user, he used to wander the halls of the Port Authority bus terminal, looking for trouble.

When talking about his new life, his eyes glow with a fierce light. “When I came to him, when I found him,” De Roy says, “I tasted the Lord’s goodness. I just couldn’t get enough of him. I’d run into Port Authority after coming to the Upper Room, grab a corner, and read the Bible and pray all night. I just wanted him so bad.”

Since kicking crack, De Roy has new plans. He wants to get a job, maybe enter Bible school or a Teen Challenge program. “Maybe even preach. We’ll see,” he smiles. “People I used to hang out with at the bus terminal have respect for me now. They come up to me and want to talk about the Bible.”

On this particular morning, the director of the Upper Room, a former drug addict named Jimmy Lilley, stops by to greet his motley congregation of AIDS sufferers and crack users. As he shakes hands, he calls many of them by name. Jimmy, who is missing several fingers on one hand, is affectionately known to friends as “Nubs.”

“I was a drug user during the sixties,” he explains, “but this crack stuff is worse. It’s a real killer. We’re still looking at the same basic problem, though: sin,” he says, looking you squarely in the eye.

“I was confronted straight ahead about sin. Nobody tried to sneak in a side door with me. So I don’t do that with the people I try to reach.”

When asked why the Upper Room ministry has been successful in steering drug addicts toward Christ, Jimmy pauses and glances at his glassy-eyed parishioners.

“These people have got to know you love them,” he finally explains. “You can’t just preach at them. You’ve got to be a real person—with Christ’s love burning in your heart—to reach them.

“It’s like digging for gold,” he says. Shifting metaphors, he adds, “You’ve got to dig these people out, like a farmer getting his soil ready. You’ve got to look past the dirt and see the harvest.”

No Street Game

A slight woman politely refuses breakfast but stands outside in the hallway, listening to Bill as he begins his morning message. She has stringy brown hair, and is wearing a faded denim skirt, a T-shirt, and hose with several runs. She says her name is Tabitha.

Up close, however, her light growth of facial hair gives away her secret: Tabitha is really a man. After Bill finishes speaking, she (or he) smiles, and says in a hoarse falsetto, “I love these people. They’re the real thing. They really want to help you.”

He then anxiously explains that he is not a Christian. “Not at all. Something always holds me back.” He leans against the wall, tugs at his stockings. “But maybe someday. I’ll keep coming here, though. It can’t hurt, can it?”

Today’s breakfast-table conversation centers on Kerry, a young girl living on the streets who has been hospitalized. She was beaten and left for dead in the bus terminal last night. Just yesterday a worker was pleading with her to give her life to God.

No one wants to say who did it, but several people hint that even the authorities who are supposed to protect them cannot be trusted.

“No one’s safe from anybody anymore,” one man mumbles, staring out the window. “This is the only place where I feel safe, you know?”

When asked if they know David Wilkerson, many of the street people shake their heads no. But they do know about Times Square Church.

“They won’t play street games with you, though,” offers a young girl. She says she went forward for prayer during Bill’s Bible study several weeks ago and hasn’t touched crack since.

“They’ll just tell you what they tell you here: ‘You can get right with God, before it’s too late.’ ”

By Joy Roulier Sawyer, a free-lance writer living in New York City. Names of some of the Upper Room’s clients have been changed.

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