The Foundry Experience
Vicki Doulos

The first time I visited the Foundry was a Friday night seven years ago. A friend of mine had urged me to attend a worship service, promising me I’d love the place while simultaneously warning me about the destitute neighborhood in which it was located. As I drove up to the small, unremarkable building, the sun had set, adding to the feeling of poverty and peril. However, as I walked through the door, I felt immediately at peace.
 
The atmosphere was dark and cave-like, yet somehow soothing and inviting. Candles flickered all around and people milled about, chatting and laughing. One wall was constructed of black, enamel-coated cinder blocks, while the opposite wall was made of red brick. Four windows (three protected against vandalism by grating) looked down Clinton Avenue. The rough, slightly dusty concrete floor was nicked, cracked, and painted black, as were the lighting fixtures, naked pipes, and ductwork that crisscrossed the ceiling. A swathe of fabric was draped over a black ceiling pipe, while battered black speakers stood at either side of the stage. A number of plastic blue chairs sat in rows across the front half of the room, but several unmatched, sinking sofas and small round tables were scattered about the remainder of the room. 
 
On this night, as on countless nights thereafter, the objective was to minister to the Lord through music and song. No other agenda was required, and therefore there was a freedom in the worship that happens in the Foundry unlike any other place I had been. Since that night, I have seen several worship leaders come and go, but certain elements are always the same: psalmists and musicians, intent on finding the rhythm of the Lord and doing His bidding, take up instruments of every kind (bass and acoustic guitars, the shofar, keyboard, rainmaker, mandolin, flute, and drums) and search out the songs of the Lord. Sometimes the music has been subtle and serene, sometimes it’s thunderous and militant, but always it’s liberating. Worshipers sit cross-legged, recline on the sole strip of carpet at the front of the room, wave flags, dance, sit at tables and write, snuggle into couches, or drink coffee and eat muffins. Some children join in the celebration; others sleep. The music and songs that come forth are raw, passionate, many-layered, and sacred.
 
For the past seven years, I have attended countless weekly and special events in the Foundry—most notably Zadok worship services, where innumerable songs would be birthed. Some have been chronicled and recorded, while others existed for one night and were then forgotten—fleeting gifts both from and to the Lord. In addition to Zadok, the Foundry has accommodated myriad Sunday services and special events as well as hundreds of community dinners during which neighborhood residents, children, and homeless men and women have filled up on hot food and the Word of God. In this unremarkable building, penniless
 men have prayed for and served one another; prostitutes have felt the comfort of warm hugs; inner city children have eaten wholesome meals; and addicts have found solace in the comfort of an old couch.  
 
The Foundry has become my second home, a refuge like no other. I have experienced more of God in that little place than anywhere else on earth. During a rainstorm, the roof leaks; often, the plumbing leaves a lot to be desired, and the occasional mouse is not an uncommon sight. And yet the place is saturated with the essence and fragrance of God, a sanctuary in which the sounds of heaven come to earth.
 

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