Why the Homeless? (a selective autobiography)

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I've added Discipling the Homeless to the title of this web log, after recent reflection on where God has been taking my ministry. So, how did a 20-year aerospace engineer end up with a call to serve the homeless? A short, selective autobiography may be in order.

The 1990's collapse of the aerospace industry left me jobless in a market where 20,000 middle management engineers like myself were out on the street. 18,000 of these had college degrees—a crucial qualification that I lacked. After sending out 740 resumés, I finally landed an interview—and a top job—in the exact place where I had sworn I'd never work: central Los Angeles, which I had looked on as the belly of the beast.

My new job as Director of Information Systems for a department of the County of Los Angeles often required working late. This gave me a view of the ebb and flow of contact between the cultures in L.A.'s Korea-town: The 'Suits' (which included me) would arrive at 9am from the suburbs, and abandon the city promptly at 6pm. In my building, they were replaced by the marginalized Hispanic workforce, who came in to vacuum floors, clean bathrooms, and haul trash outside to fill up the dumpsters. By 8pm, the Hispanics had returned to neighborhoods such as East L.A., and were replaced around our building by the homeless, whose job it was to rifle through our dumpsters in search of food, saleable goods, and overnight housing materials. The Koreans, by and large, were the other witnesses of these migrations, as they tended the stores that served all four populations: Koreans, 'Suits,' Hispanics, and the Homeless.

Many of these homeless were mentally unstable, and some were downright dangerous. Others were just lost. A few were quite charming. I remember one small, frail, and elderly Hispanic lady. At night she would pick out small glass vials from the dumpsters behind medical facilities and scraps of flowers from behind florist shops. Then she would fashion these discards into miniature floral bouquets and sell them from her pushcart the next day for a dollar each. Somewhere along the way, and without my knowing it, God gave me a heart for these discarded homeless people.

Little did I know that I would soon be homeless myself. At the time, I had drifted away from religious life, and I was not serving God. In fact, although I was at the peak of my technical career, my personal life was in the toilet. I lost my home, my family, and my job, and ended up running away into the desert for a year. But there Jesus reached out to me and Called Me His Friend, and I rededicated my life to God. Leaving the desert, I was sure that God would be sending me to help the homeless on Skid Row Los Angeles, but that was not to happen right away.

Instead, God led me into Victory Outreach International, a church that was on fire for God. I saw the faith that they had, and wanted a piece of it for myself. I spent 6 months in the Riverside, California men's home learning spiritual disciplines and street ministry while reaching out to heroin addicts. I became the home's office manager; the first contact point for men who were often homeless because of their addictions, and were contemplating turning their lives over to God.

Leaving the men's home behind led me to more personal homelessness, but not for long. In Springfield, Missouri, I joined an Assembly of God church (while also attending three others) and began reaching out to the homeless who frequented the town square. With another street evangelist, I planted a church just off Commercial Street (Springfield's own 'Skid Row') where more than one homeless young man and young woman turned their lives over to God. That was a tough winter, with ice storms coating the streets and bringing tree branches crashing through the roof of the church. But when the town fathers found out we were ministering to the homeless—with a dozen people sleeping on the pews overnight—they promptly shut off our heat and electricity.

That church came to a crushing end, which I attributed to three deficiencies on the part of myself and the other evangelist: lack of training, lack of credentials, and lack of organizational covering. But mostly, the failure could be chalked up to a lack paying attention to the leading of the Holy Spirit, who had been encouraging us to bring more townspeople into church leadership. Nevertheless, I determined that I would not strike out on my own like that again, at least until I had the training, the credentials, and the covering.

When I returned to California, I sought out the mother church of Victory Outreach where its School of Ministry was headquartered. Discipleship and street evangelism to the addicted were the focus there, although there was also some outreach to the homeless. For the first ten weeks I lived under a bush, while attending classes, volunteering at the School, and working a full time job. I gathered every credential they then were offering: Christian Worker's Certificate, Christian Ministry Diploma, and Regional Leadership Training. I moved to Pasadena, where I served for a year as the Director of the Pasadena men's home, teaching Bible lessons and spiritual disciplines to former addicts.

But it was time for more. In fact, it was finally time for Skid Row. I moved into one of the Skid Row hotels (700 rooms, one maid), and within weeks found myself assigned as assistant pastor at Harvest of Hope, a storefront church of the Assemblies of God. Here I was in direct contact with street homeless, running Sunday services and preaching while still holding down that full time job. I attended Latin American Bible Institute to prepare myself for upper division studies before transferring to Vanguard University to get a Bachelor's degree in Religion.

After two years immersed in that once-feared belly of the beast, I moved to Orange County to pursue a Master's degree in Bible Studies. Taking time off from active ministry was painful, but I was gratified some years later when I found some of the formerly homeless that had been a part of Harvest of Hope participating in ministry to others at Saint David's Anglican Church in North Hollywood.

Orange County led me back to my historical roots in the Anglican tradition: I had heard that there was a charismatic Episcopal church in Newport Beach, but I had no idea that there was an Episcopal church that was also evangelical and orthodox. I found all three at Saint James Anglican, a church now aligning with the new Anglican Church in North America, although somewhat distracted by its property fight with The Episcopal Church.

With the completion of my schooling, I was ready to move back into full time ministry. Newport Beach, despite its $2.5 million-plus median home price, had its share of the homeless, but ministry to them was spotty and not well understood. Once-a-month or once-a-week ministry opportunities were just not what I was looking for. Father Richard Menees, who had been trying to recruit me as a missionary from day one at Saint James, suggested that I check out Church Army. "They take in misfits," he said. So off to Church Army headquarters in Pennsylvania I drove.

What I did not expect to find there was a little-noticed branch of the Anglican tradition, the Communion of Evangelical Episcopal Churches and its non-geographical fledgling Missionary Diocese of Saint Aiden Lindisfarne. Its bishop-in-waiting, Alan Morris, was preaching radical discipleship to a pair of house churches and had attracted a following of Trinity Seminary graduates with big ideas. I found in Alan a kindred spirit; combining the fire one might find at Victory Outreach with the respect for tradition known to the Anglican tradition. By the following year, I had been ordained a Deacon in the CEEC as one of 17 ordinands at a CEEC church in Florida.

A month in Pennsylvania and a month in Branson gave me a view of what Church Army was doing, especially with the addicted, but a month in Mississippi captured my heart. Homes, businesses, and whole towns had been wiped off the map (down to the slabs) and most of the help was coming from Church-based organizations, including James and Mary Giles of Church Army. They were making great strides at relief work alongside God's Katrina Kitchen, but had been flummoxed by the traditional homeless, who had always been there, but were now in worse shape than ever before, since their supporting services had been mostly wiped out by Katrina.

In a year-and-a-half in Mississippi, we ministered to the homeless who showed up at the food line in the kitchen, helping with referrals or just a shoulder to lean on. More intense care was provided to others, namely 14 men who we invited into my bunkhouse to work in Katrina relief, practice spiritual disciplines, and learn the 12-step addiction recovery program as taught at Church Army Branson. Of the 14 men, 12 had a history of substance addiction, while the remaining two were simply chronically homeless. All of them were touched by their experience there, but the majority relapsed into their addictions. One of them—Samuel—I baptised in the Gulf of Mexico, assisted by James Giles.

When the Mississippi mission came to an end, I was at a loss as to where to go next. Now I had the training (Men's recovery homes, Skid Row, 12-Step recovery); the credentials (Ministry School, B.A in Religion, M.A. in Bible); and the Covering (Deacon in the CEEC, Captain in Church Army). All I thought I needed was the next task from the Lord . How wrong I was. At my Bishop's invitation, I moved back to Pennsylvania to help the diocese.

It wasn't long before the Lord sent me my next task: caring for a grade-school child on the edge of homelessness. My detailed ministry budget got knocked into a cocked hat while I redirected resources into school lunches, allowance, basketball team fees, and most of all, disastrous automobiles. Yet I'm still being true to my core ministry—as Saint James termed it—the Rolin Bruno Benevolence Fund for the Homeless.

Thank you, Lord, for your promise that you would always be there for me.
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Winter 08/09 Update. Plus, Car Chronicles #4

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It's Still Winter?

Well, just barely.

Today is the last full day of the official winter season, and tomorrow we'll see the spring equinox, the first day of spring.

Here's a photo from January, but today the snow is gone, the robins have returned, and we are starting to have whole days when the temperature stays above freezing.

However, no leaves yet have appeared on the trees, and the wind chill still calls for a jacket if you're going to be outside.

But worse, it still feels a lot like winter to me: sort of a winter season in my ministry; in my life, so to speak.

But first, the good news.

One side effect of having a nine-year-old living with me is that I get to invite his friends in the neighborhood to church. About a dozen children have come with us to Church of the Savior (COTS), a church here in the Anglican Diocese of Pittsburgh.

Many of these children had hardly darkened a church door. But they enjoyed the small children's ministry classes, and some of them asked if they could come with us again--which of course, I gladly encouraged,

One child's reaction has stuck with me. When this young lad returned from Sunday School, I was instructing him in what would happen at Holy Communion. COTS accepts all baptised persons to the communion (pita bread & non-alcoholic wine), and gives a blessing to those who do not partake. I asked the boy if he had been baptised, and he asked me,

"What does 'baptize' mean?"

He had never heard the word. This made me realize just how secular our society has become, and how many children are growing up without access to the saving knowledge of Jesus Christ. This boy took away the impression that baptism was something special, and something to be desired. May the Lord nuture that seed and pique his interest in Jesus.


And now for the darker news.

Last Spring (see below), I was bubbling over about my new '92 Honda Accord, in "the prime of its life." I thought that the buffeting of the ice floes of life (like these on the Ohio River) was melting away, and I could float smoothly down to wherever the river of my ministry should take me.

I wish. The Honda needed brakes, then a radiator replacement. More recently, I spun out the car after hitting an ice floe of sorts on Pennsylvania Hwy. 65. The repairs stemming from that event involved replacing the radiator again.

Then came the torrential oil leak. The mechanic pulled the front plate off the engine, and found major problems with the oil pump and seal, with prohibitive costs for parts, not to mention labor. End result? A one-way trip to the junk yard for a bitterly meager price.

If the Lord truly still wanted me to have a car as part of my ministry, it would seem I would need something that promised more reliability than a 15-year-old car.

I tried (actually, I was forced) to cope with caring for my young charge (just turned 10 years old) using my resources as a pedestrian and a bicylist. That had not been going well. The old injuries to my left leg (broken knee and broken hip) did not respond kindly to the increased stress that the cold and the rain and the forced exercise placed on me.

Not all was bad news, however. The local Chevy dealer was advertising 2008 Chevy Cobalts at an attractive price, and as I was passing by on my bike I went in to enquire. To my profound suprise, they approved me for a car loan, an approval that included an attractive payment and interest rate. The down side was the jump in insurance costs to include comp & collision, which would push me to the limits of my pension-based income.

What to do? I wept before the Lord. Then I chose faith over despair.

In sum, I have a shiny black subcompact car parked outside, still covered by most of the miles of the manufacturer's warranty. And I look forward to seeing how my Lord is going to help me pay for it.

Pray for me, brothers and sisters.
Pray for my flagging spirit, and pray for my health.
And thank you, for taking the interest and concern to read this web log.
May the Lord bless you and keep you.

Rolin

Fall 2008 Update

Let me start by telling you a story:

Some 40 years ago, at an elementary school in Indonesia, a third grade teacher asked each of her students to stand up and tell the class what it was that they hoped to do with their lives; that is, "What would you like to be when you grow up? When it came to his turn, one young lad stood up to say, "I want to become President of the United States."

That 8-year-old lad's name was Barack Obama.

This story hit home for me, as the somewhat surprised full-time caretaker for another young lad, who we'll call Alex. The years between 8 and 10 years of age are crucially formative for the self-identity of young men and help to set them on their life-long course.

Alex is attending to the challenges of the fourth grade, has signed up for basketball competition, and is progressing very well in his martial arts class, where he has joined the junior drill team. Truth to tell, assisting a fourth-grader has been challenging to me also, as Alex brings home what seems (to him, at least) to be a mountain of homework on nine different subjects assigned by a team of three home room teachers—not to mention music, library, and gym. At home, he prefers to exercise his expertise on tracking down internet-provided hints for playing computer games, but with firm guidance will set to his homework with a will and is determined to do well in school. He followed the presidential election closely, and has pictures of President-elect Obama and his family posted on his bedroom wall.

Someone once said that your ministry assignment is the people that God puts in front of you. I have wondered why God gave me all that training in street evangelism and street ministry before giving me the assignment to be a full-time foster parent. But my friends here continue to encourage me to stick with my assignment. And on the other hand, God seldom consults with me about what kind of training I think I need.

The street ministry tasks given to me last year on the hurricane-ravaged coast of Mississippi gave me the opportunity to provide firm guidance to a dozen troubled men, pointing them toward what God was choosing for them in place of the snares of the Enemy. Each man was touched in some way, but no success story is greater than that of Church Army Gulf Coast graduate Van. When Van came to us he was broke, homeless, living under the Gulfport pier, and addicted to crack cocaine.

But now he is doing wonderfully in his role as chief cook for the rebuilding efforts of the Free Church of the Annunciaton in New Orleans. He has been welcomed enthusiastically by the community and is relishing the role of being one of a beloved member of the extended church family, while he cooks for dozens—and even hundreds—of volunteers who come to help New Orleans rebuild from the devastation left behind by Hurricane Katrina. Fr. Jerry Kramer posted his photo in their latest newsletter, which I'm sharing with you here.

Continuing with Church Army work, my proximity to the world headquarters here is allowing me to help the National Director prepare and edit a major envisioning document for the training of candidates who will plant "Bases of Evangelism," most notably exemplified by the Church Army base in Branson, Missouri. A Base of Evangelism is defined as a self-replicating community of faith where the least are reached for Jesus and drawn into the life and mission of the church.

I will also be helping to edit an envisioning document for a new province within the Communion of Evangelical Episcopal Churches being prepared by my Bishop, Alan Morris. It will be led by three bishops and will provide strategic support for the rapid multiplication of churches in Pakistan and China. With over 2,000 churches and growing, there is a critical need for leadership training, and for new indigenous priests and bishops.

Despite the title of this post, Autumn as a weather phenomenon here in Pennsylvania is long gone, flashing by in the blink of an eye. The banks of the Ohio River are no longer spashed with color but draped in drab winter browns, and we have already had our first inch of snow here, with night temperatures down into the teens.

Thank you all for your prayers, and for your contributions.

I will try to keep you all posted with my activities in this space, with an update at least quarterly.

Anglican Men's Weekend

Last month I had the good fortune to be able to drop in on the Anglican Men's Weekend in the mountains of Southern California. Archbishop Henry Luke Orombi and a host of other Anglican bishops led a powerful retreat to recharge the batteries of the faithful, and give their views of the road ahead.

Kevin Kallsen of Anglican TV, who I had not seen since the Episcopal house of bishops meeting in New Orleans, was there to tape the proceedings.

After each of the teachings, I joined with the men who gathered into small groups in the forested retreat center to work through the issues being raised, both personal and corporate. It was a real chance to get our feet firmly replanted on solid ground.

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Better yet, I had the pleasure of re-connecting and consulting with a great many of the closest friends from my three-year sojourn with St. James Anglican of Newport Beach including Fr. Richard Menees (far right, bottom picture). They helped me ponder the future of my ministry and what God was doing in my life. I came away lightened and refreshed.

Wedding Bells

Yup, it's true! My youngest progeny and only daughter got married!

I had a chance to visit them at their wedding reception in the high desert of Southern California. Not only that, I had the honor to make a fool of myself dancing 70's disco style (the only dance I know) with the new bride. I was also happy to have the chance to connect with my two older sons who I have not seen for way too long.

All this left me with a yearning to move back to California; to be closer to my family and familiar surroundings. But God has plunked me down in Western Pennsylvania for the present, and I'll just have to be patient to see what he has in store for me here.

God is Good.
All the Time.

Car Chronicles #3

Springtime, and the trees are in bloom!

Time for a breath of fresh air and a new car.
The '91 Dodge Dynasaur needed brakes and a transmission cleansing, not to mention the inspection stickers on the window required by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Oh, and since it wouldn't shift out of low gear, I was getting 12 miles per gallon at $3.69 each gallon.
So the Lord provided this for me: A '93 Honda Accord LX with only 170,000 miles on it--right in the prime of life for a Honda!
And with the inspection stickers in the window, I'm no longer a Pennsylvania scofflaw. Doncha think I'll get better than 12 MPG?

Thank you, Jesus.

Tomorrow I fly to California to drop in on the Anglican Men's Weekend, and touch base with all my friends and supporters from Southern California. From there I'll drive to the wedding reception for my daughter, Amber. There I hope to see my two sons, Raymond and Walter, for the first time in some ten years. Please Pray for me.

Still hangin' in there with the Lord,
The Deacon.

Ezekiel's Call

Ezekiel's Call

Words and Music by Rolin Bruno

All rights reserved

1

In my thirtieth year, on the fifth day of the month, I sat with the captives by the river.

When out of the north, the heavens burst forth, an a whirlwind and fire made me shiver.

From the midst of the fire, four creatures sped by, on wheels that rose in the sky,

With thunder in their wings, like a waterfall sings, or the voice of my God, El Shaddai.

refrain

El Shaddai, come visit your people;

El Shaddai, we long for your call.

El Shaddai, come near to us, open our ears,

For without you we surely will fall.

2

Each of the four had the face of a man, and an eagle, an ox, and a lion.

When they ended their flight, there above them a light, as a man on a sapphire throne,

High in the sky, with a light in his eye, like a rainbow that shines in a cloud;

And I fell to my face, for I knew in this place, I had looked on the glory of God.

refrain

3

As I lay on the ground, I was hearing the sound, of the one who is faithful and true.

He said, "Son of man, stand up on your feet, and hear what I would say to you:

"My people are wild, they revolt like a child they're obstinate, stubborn and proud;

"And I send you to speak, though the prospects are bleak, but speak to them often and loud."

refrain

4

Then the four creatures roared, and the Spirit of the Lord sent me back on the way to my people.

But a voice in my ears spoke loud to my tears, with direction for what I must do:

"I set you in the land as a watchman to stand, to sound the alarm loud and clear;

"With a forehead like flint, never waiver or hint, speak my words for my people to hear."

refrain

close

O Watchman, watch over your people;

Watchman, we're counting on you.

O Watchman, stay right here and open our ears,

To the words of the Faithful and True.

The Chord progressions were inspired by the artistry of Gabriel Martinez:

Am, Dm, F, E, Am

Dm, Am, F, E, Am

Dm, Am, F, F, E

Am, Dm, F, E, Am

refrain/close

Dm, Am

Dm, Am

Dm, F

F, E