A Day in the Life of JPUSA

by Bette Durr

7:00 A.M.‑Someone knocks and calls "good morning."

The early morning sounds of JPUSA filter into the room. The wooden hall is carpeted (though extremely worn and patched with electrical tape) but the wood squeaks and protests as people go back and forth about their business.

I slowly surface out of sleep, roll over and survey our room.

It is small, about 10 X 15, and is fairly typical of the average "JPUSAite" (pronounced JA‑POOS‑A‑ITEI) It contains a bed, small table, desk, dresser and three wooden chairs. Everything is second hand and lends to a cozy atmosphere. There are two sets of wall shelves. Floor space is at a premium and you must keep things somewhere, junk shop treasures live on these shelves: cups, saucers, small boxes, a blue tin coffee pot, books and pictures. Tin boxes and canisters are a common item that almost everyone seems to have

Plants cover the window, a profusion of life smiles down at us.

The living space is small but comfortable. There is also a small closet with a sink and an adjoining bath that is shared with a next‑door room.

8:00‑Down to a large industrial type kitchen (which somehow never fails to intimidate me) to forage for breakfast. The construction crew is still in the dining room finishing up their breakfast. Large metal trays sit on a table piled high with sandwiches which are lunch for the various work crews.

But that is lunch and I am concerned with breakfast. Most food here is good and some is very good but sometimes, like today, we have oatmeal for breakfast.

I glomp oatmeal on my tray and glumly think it must be the Lord's way of purging my flesh today.

JPUSA has its own interesting inside lingo: "rev from heav" ("Hey brother, do you have a 'rev' on this?") "purge" ("What a purge "‑the bus is an hour late picking up the street‑witnessing team); "in the flesh" ("I was really in the flesh at him"‑a sister who felt one of the deacons didn't have enough sympathy for her situation. The disagreement was cleared up quickly but her first reaction was self‑justification).

It's not surprising that with this many people from such diverse backgrounds that conflicts arise.

When joining this ministry you must do so with the attitude that there are a lot of things that will have to go personality‑wise. Not that you lose your individuality, on the contrary, many people who come here realize for the first time the gifts they possess and acquire an identity in the service to the Body of Christ that they would never find elsewhere.

In the daily life of a closely committed community you must face up to the fact that many of your problems develop within you and are rooted in inward sin rather than being everyone else's fault.

By 9:30 the building will be almost deserted, the JPUSA carpenters, painters and movers are long gone, the cooks are already busy and most of the Cornerstone staff are at their offices at an old factory building.

The Cornerstone staff consists of artists, writers, editors, printers, photographers and the mail room staff.

Every morning all or most of them climb aboard their school bus. Theoretically the bus leaves at 8:30. In real life this almost never happens.

One by one people climb on the old bus. All bring their lunch and some get on with their breakfast too. Finishing up a plate of pancakes on the way to work is not unusual. Of course just because someone has gotten on the bus is no assurance that they will stay on. There is always something that someone has forgotten, or a person you need to talk to before you're ready to go.

Finally, the bus seems full, the driver gets the key out, (this particular vehicle starts with a key, some start with bread knives)‑‑but no‑Eric is not here yet.

Discussion follows, is he coming? ‑yes. We should wait . . . we should go . . . let him take the 'el' train ... etc., etc. People climb off the bus and mingle around outside. Minutes pass, Eric appears, briefcase in hand, and gets aboard to a sitting standing‑ovation.

We pray (no vehicle goes anywhere at JPUSA without a prayer before starting) and drive through the city to the black ghetto area of Cabrini Green. This neighborhood reminds me of pictures of towns after a war. Not exactly bomb cratered, but strewn with the rubble of people's lives. Sidewalks cave in and disappear into the earth, vacant lots are paved with glass. The residents of a nearby low rent condominium project take turns shooting at each other through open windows during the summer.

The bus pulls up to a large threestory factory building with a dark wooden door. This is it, folks. No sign proclaims that these are the Cornerstone offices. Inside we receive a joyous welcome from Duke, a very large Great Dane.

Desks, file cabinets and drawing boards line the walls and dissect the middle of the room. Wooden shelves stretch the entire length of the room above the desks, storing bins of reference magazines.

A small group of chairs clusters around a table and a coffee machine makes continuous cups of coffee cut with barley.

Before any work is started we come together to pray for each other and the various needs of the ministry, then a song, then to work.

Squirt, the Cornerstone cat, romps back and forth across the floor and toddlers truck around the room in walkers or take a nap in one of the pIaypens.

Francis Schaeffer once stated, "The Christian is the one whose imagination should fly beyond the stars." These people are reaching.

They successfully represent the Christian world view and employ today's medium without stooping to its madness.

Back at JPUSA a calm descends upon the building, children play in the long hallways and the stay‑at‑homes go about their daily business.

I look down from my second‑story window. The October sky is grey and golden autumn leaves are spangling the street. Below me, unseen, I hear the metallic twang of rakes as brothers capture the leaves and confine them to garbage bags. I watch two brothers across the street, garbage bag between them, bending and stooping to collect the refuse of a day's life on Malden Street.

If the neighbors appreciate or notice the service, no one's talking. Tomorrow the street will look much the same and tomorrow more brothers will repeat the process.

The hallways here are long with about 23 rooms on each floor. Twentythree rooms begets twenty‑three doors and doors are an interesting means of communication. If the door is open, company is welcome. A closed door usually carries detailed instructions regarding outsiders' conduct and insiders' frame‑of‑mind.

Examples of JPUSA graffiti:

"Quarantine‑chicken ‑pox kids within"

,'Praying and reading, don't knock unless it is an absolute emergency"

"Baby is sleeping‑Sandy is not here"

"Sandy may or may not be here. Chris is working (or goofing off), you may enter without knocking"

"Spotty the turtle is loose so enter carefully please"

"Becky is napping shhh .

"This sign that you see below (if there is one) is true. Please believe us. We are Bible‑believing Christians simply trying to be obedient to Mark 16:17, 'And these signs shall follow those that believe.' Please check heart"

". . . I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in."

Around 3:30 you begin to see them. Men with hope bleached out of their meal of the day? My feelings are mixed as I watched these men congregate in small knots. The wind swirls garbage madly down the street. Slowly more people drift into Friendly Towers.

An older woman in a wheelchair pushed by her husband wend their way into the dining room. They are regulars. A prim lady in her seventies makes her way in. She is clean, her clothes old but neat and well‑kept. Her posture is faultless and she eats quickly but with dignity.

I can see her in my mind in the 1950s: younger with a trim blue suit perhaps and a small hat with a navyblue veil sheltering curled hair. White gloves with piping complete the fantasy. The picture fades and she sits alone before me. She gathers herself up and slowly walks back down Malden.

Lately, I've been told, the drifters and the elderly who eat their evening meal here have beenjoined by something new, families. I remember watching the national news some weeks ago, a story on the economy focused on the epidemic unemployment in Chicago. A man with a baby in his arms and a wife and children beside him were in line outside a soup kitchen. She was angry, he was embarrassed, his kids were hungry.

And now it is taken out of the context of a flickering image on a small screen. Here it is, before me.

In order to assure that no one is lost in such a large community, people are broken down into groups of thirteen or fourteen. They meet every week and individual attention can be given to everyone's needs. Married couples' groups also have their own time together.

An important factor in clearing up differences in community is really being open and honest. It is crucial to express yourself when a problem appears and not to wait until it has festered and become insurmountable in your mind.

Fridays and Saturdays are witnessing nights. The faithful bus drops off teams at various points in the city.

"Hi, do you know Jesus loves you and died for your sins?"

People push past, heads down. We stand outside the movie theater. Some people stop to talk or take a tract. Most busily ignore us.

This guy comes walking up fast.

"Hey, Jesus loves you, man!"

He just keeps going. Suddenly he stops and whirls around.

"You're crazy," he says. He turns back.

"No, He really does. He died for you, man, and He can give you a new life."

He whips around, eyes staring and jabs his finger at us, shouting, "You're really crazy!"

A Black Muslim, very quiet and polite stops and talks for awhile.

Finally the bus comes into view.

Riding back to JPUSA feels good. Going home.

I feel good about tonight. I feel good thinking about how many times the Gospel went out. All those seeds.

There will be a forest someday.

Epilogue

In retrospect, our visit with Jesus People is something I appreciate more as time goes by.

This article could have been pages longer. There is so much more to convey. People opened up their lives to us and were extremely honest about anything we cared to ask. There were countless testimonies of lives changed and rearranged.

But most of all, I was daily confronted with Christ.

And that made it rough on me. I went through inner struggles trying to evaluate what my motives really are in much of my day to day living.

Nobody sat me down and gave me a big rap on what I should be doing or on how together they were. They didn't need to.

The Lord was doing the talking.

-=-

Robb and Bette Durr have been publishing a Salvation Army contemporary magazine, Great Times. Last fall, they left their home in Florida to spend a week with us and to experience a taste of community life. The preceding article, written by Bette Durr, has been reprinted from Great Times and shares a few of the many aspects of JPUSA.