Chad Hyatt swept leaves away from a colorful table painted to say, “All of Y’all are Welcome,” that held a 5-gallon jug of coffee, nestled in the courtyard basement of Druid Hills Presbyterian Church.
“This is the last Sunday, ain’t it?” a congregant called across the small courtyard. Hyatt is the pastor of Mercy Community Church, a congregation where both homeless and housed people worship together. Mercy Church offers spiritual respite alongside food, clothes and a central location for community.
“Last Sunday here, yes it is,” Hyatt replied.
After 18 years, Druid Hills Presbyterian did not renew Mercy Church’s lease.
When Hyatt broke the news to the community, he said, “We’re moving, but we’re not closing. We’re not going to quit doing what we do.”
“The discussions around this decision were some of the deepest and hardest kinds of conversation that a church leadership team can have,” said Druid Hills Presbyterian Reverend Betsy Turner. Elected lay members on a representative board called the Session made the final call not to renew the lease.
“Definitely… there was a sense of failure that we could no longer make this work,” said Eric Dusenbury, the Clerk of Session for Druid Hills.
The church opened its campus to other organizations, including a music school and an emergency food pantry, years ago because church leaders realized it served the community no good to only be open on Sundays.
Turner said Mercy’s work is crucial because it serves the homeless community and those in the margins in ways that most churches can’t or won’t.
“This one was particularly gut-wrenching because there were no easy answers,” she said.
At the last service in the beloved orange-and-purple basement of the Druid Hills campus, Hyatt reminded the congregation next week’s service would be held in the Fellowship Hall of St. John’s Lutheran Church.
Two men, Rico and Jimmy, prepared breakfast like they did every week while doo-wop classics faded in and out of a small Bluetooth speaker near the kitchen. Jeremy Demarest, the church’s Children and Youth Coordinator, gave a pair of gloves to a friend in need and then searched the pantry for bread and grape juice, the elements of Communion for the end of the service.
“At the same time that we’re grieving, there are real needs.” Hyatt said during bible study, “This is a warm place to be on a cold day.” Community members around the room responded in agreement.
For years, the vivid basement collected artifacts of permanence: congregation-made art, prayer flags bearing the photos of people of the community, including those who have died. Thousands of hands had made this space home.
Joyful music emanated from the basement space during Mercy’s last service.
“I’m a sentimental guy, so I look at pieces of the wall, I look at doorframes – there are memories literally attached to every inch of this space for me,” Hyatt said. “Memories of care.”
That next Sunday marked the beginning of the Christian worship calendar. Hyatt remarked this time in the Christian tradition was one of hope, but also anxious waiting – it marked the wait for Jesus Christ to be born.
Hyatt felt another anxiety. St. John’s Lutheran Church is only a temporary home for three hours on Sundays. He’s looking for another space for Mercy to pick back up with service five days a week.
But for now, Rico and Jimmy made breakfast in the loaned kitchen. Community leaders unpacked everything they needed for service and repacked everything when the service finished.
People had some respite.
“This is a story that, unlike a liturgical season, doesn’t have a nice tidy ending,” Hyatt said, reflecting on the timing. “We’re still in the period of in-between, and in-between is a hard place to be. But it can also be a fruitful, joyful, beautiful place to be.”
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