The Helping Hand Mission

Do you ever wonder how it is that some childhood memories are rather fuzzy, while others remain quite vivid, even after thirty or forty years?

If you were to ask me to name one birthday or Christmas present that I received between the ages of six and fifteen, I couldn’t do it. I know that I got gifts. I just don’t remember what they were. Oh, I’m sure there was a football and some clothes, etc., but nothing jumps out. I can’t say “I’ll never forget that on my tenth birthday, I got such and such . . .”

On the other hand, to this day I have very strong recollections of the Helping Hand Mission. The Helping Hand Mission was a mission in a somewhat dangerous section of center city Philadelphia that I visited as a boy. I was about nine or ten years old at the time (circa 1975/1976). A group from our church would go to the mission once a month on a Saturday night to lead a worship service for homeless people, then provide them with sandwiches and coffee afterwards. My father would take my older sister and me on these trips.

What makes my memories of the mission so vivid is that they are multi-sensory. I remember the sights of the mission—the poor and homeless who would wander in. Some of them were mentally unstable, and would simply sit there and mumble softly to themselves the whole time. Others simply looked poor, dirty, destitute, helpless—nothing like what I was used to in my hometown in the suburbs.

I remember the sounds of the mission. I can remember the short walk from the car to the front door of the mission, often hearing police sirens nearby. But most of all, I can remember an enormous German shepherd behind a fence right outside of the mission. The dog, which was as big as me, would leap toward the fence, insanely barking, only a few feet from my face. It scared me to death.

I remember the smell of the mission. The mission was filled with a strong, grungy odor that was very displeasing. I recall wishing that I could hold my breath for an hour or so, but I knew that was not possible. I had to endure it. I also remember thinking how those who lived and worked there had to put up with that smell all the time.

And I remember the feel of the mission. I remember standing in line after the service, handing out food to the people, shaking their hands. A lot of these hands were old, dirty, even shriveled and misshapen. As a nine year old, I remember thinking that it felt kind of creepy, but I also was touched that many of them were so truly thankful that we were feeding them.

What I have come to realize as an adult is that what we did at the Helping Hand Mission was what true Christian charity is all about. We did not wait for the poor and dispossessed to stumble into our church some Sunday. We went to them. And we didn’t go just to hand out sandwiches, as important as that is. The Helping Hand Mission was there to meet physical needs, yes, but it was there to address spiritual illnesses as well, which is ultimately more important. Sometimes it was hard to tell if some of the people there were hearing the gospel as it was being proclaimed. But the church was being faithful in doing what it was called to do—going out into the world and preaching the Word.

My memories of the Helping Hand Mission have also caused me to think about what memories my children will have when they grow up. In all likelihood, they will not remember what presents they got on their birthdays. But have they had any experiences outside of our antiseptic suburbia that will be ingrained in them and impact their thinking to the degree that I have been affected by the Helping Hand Mission? I can’t say that my trips to the mission were “fun,” but I can say, in reflection, that they were helpful, both for the poor people there and for myself.

(By the way, out of curiosity I just did a quick search on the internet. The Helping Hand Mission, which was founded in 1905, is still up and operating in downtown Philadelphia, with the same goal that it has had for over a hundred years now. I found one photo of the mission, but it appears to be a personal photo taken by a professional athlete who was involved in that ministry, so I won't post it here.)