Let me tell you a story. A real story, one that echoes countless tales etched into the memories of the pastors at Lighthouse—a fresh expression of church for those battered and bruised by the storms of life, born from the ministry and community of St George’s Church. Lighthouse meets in and around St George’s Crypt, a homeless shelter in the heart of Leeds, once a somber resting place for the dead, now pulses with life and hope, serving the homeless and vulnerable.
For the last ten years, Lighthouse, in partnership with both the church and the crypt, has served as a beacon of hope and light for adults with multiple and complex needs.
One Sunday, a guy named Steve—not his real name—showed up looking for food. Although made in God's image, Steve looked like he’d been through hell. His clothes, courtesy of a street outreach team, were ragged and ill-fitting. No socks, trainers falling apart, his body weathered and scarred from a rough history. He looked older than his years, with fingernails caked in grime and a face etched with the sadness of abandonment. Homeless, hungry, a wanderer with nowhere to go. Raised in care but seemingly ditched by society, Steve was welcomed with a smile and a cup of tea.
He was told that before food was served, there'd be a church service, but he could come back in an hour if he didn’t want to hear the "Bible bashing." Cup of tea in hand, Steve decided to stay—if only for the warmth. The service kicked off, and Steve heard words that cut through his fog of disinterest and hunger: "You are loved. You have always been loved. You are loved right now and you always will be."
These words hit Steve hard. From the moment he was born, Steve was made for love and connection. The pastor's words brought a warm feeling, a tender compassion, like light cutting through darkness. Steve began to weep. He hadn’t cried in years, but the tears felt right, a response to the hope he was hearing. The Spirit of love was doing her thing.
Steve started to really listen. Then came the prayers, and the pastor invited folks to raise their hands if they needed prayer. Steve couldn’t believe it when about a dozen people raised their hands, asking for prayers for all sorts of issues—bereavement, mental health, hope. Some were even giving thanks for the love they'd found through Lighthouse. Before he knew it, Steve raised his hand and prayed for healing from his emotional pain. As the pastor prayed, love did its work again, and the tears flowed. The balm of heaven, the healing hand of the compassionate King, was at work. Steve felt it—a tangible gift, the presence of hope. He was not alone.
As the service continued, Steve heard that hope had a name, and that name was Jesus. He heard that love looks like something, and it looks like Jesus. After the service, Steve approached one of the pastors and said, "I'm not religious, but I felt something. This is different." Over a meal of sausage, mash, and gravy, one of the pastors chatted with Steve, offering practical help. The risen Jesus, through a listening ear and a compassionate response, was at work. A B&B was arranged, along with a shower and fresh clothes. Guidance was given on how to get further housing help, an invitation to midweek day centers, and a referral to a residential recovery program. Steve, the wanderer, believed he might have found a home, a thin space where heaven touches earth, a community of kindness that speaks of hope and love and offers a tangible, authentic experience of it—a lighthouse shining with the love and hope of Jesus.
Steve is still with us. He was baptized and is now part of the family. He still struggles, but his struggles are now bathed in love, grace, and compassionate kindness.
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