Holy ground: A message to all Salvation Army workers
- deansimpson7
- 18 hours ago
- 4 min read
In his role as the Café Supervisor at Melbourne Project 614, Matthew Daniels sees many people from all walks of life come into The Salvation Army’s centre on Bourke St – mostly those doing it tough and struggling to make ends meet. They are often desperate souls seeking help, and greeting them are a special type of Salvo – our frontline workers. In this Viewpoint, MATTHEW DANIELS offers a word of encouragement for these workers.
There are weeks in this work that feel heavier than others.
Not because something dramatic happened. Not because there was a crisis that made headlines. But because the accumulation of stories, needs and human complexity quietly pressed. This past week felt like one of those weeks.
There was a moment that stayed with me. Over the course of this week, three individuals came into the café at Project 614 seeking accommodation.
That, in itself, isn’t unusual. People presenting with housing needs have been part of this space for a long time. What felt different was who they were and how they presented.
Each person carried a complex story. Each situation required patience, discernment, and presence. None of it fit neatly into a policy box.
And then there was a moment on Friday, toward the end of the day, that stopped me.
All three individuals were in the café at the same time. Each was sitting with a different staff member. Three conversations, three vulnerable people, three workers fully present.
Nothing dramatic.
No spotlight.
No applause.
Just people showing up.
Standing there, watching that unfold, I was struck by how rare and significant that moment actually was.
The woman at the well
There’s a story in the Christian tradition about a woman who meets Jesus at a well.
In simple terms, she was someone society had already written off. She carried a history that made her an outsider, and she avoided public spaces. Society had already decided she didn’t matter. Her story was known, judged, and reduced. She came to the well at a time of day when she wouldn’t have to see anyone because being unseen felt safer.
And yet Jesus met her there.
He didn’t fix her circumstances in an instant. He didn’t tidy her life into something respectable. What he did was seeher. He spoke to her. He listened. He gave her dignity, purpose, and voice.
In a world that had made her invisible, she was treated as somebody.
I see echoes of that story in this space [working on the frontline with The Salvation Army] all the time.
People arrive carrying labels long before they carry hope. They’ve been defined by systems, failures, diagnoses and histories. And sometimes the most powerful thing we offer isn’t a solution. It is recognition.
We see people, we listen, we honour stories that are messy and unresolved. That matters more than we probably realise.
Moses and the bush
Another story that comes to mind is Moses and the burning bush.
In brief, it’s a story about a man going about his ordinary work when he notices a bush that is on fire but not being consumed. When he stops and pays attention, he realises something significant is happening. It’s in that moment of noticing that God speaks.
Some interpretations of this story suggest something interesting. The bush may have been burning long before Moses stopped. The moment didn’t change because God suddenly appeared, but because Moses finally noticed.
Whether you read this spiritually or symbolically, the idea is powerful: sometimes meaning isn’t absent, sometimes it is overlooked.
What I saw on Friday felt like one of those moments. An ordinary café, an ordinary end of the day. And yet, something important was happening.
If we rush, if we’re exhausted, if we’re focused only on what’s next, it’s easy to miss these moments not because they aren’t there, but because we are human.
Carrying the cost
This kind of work comes at a cost.
It is tiring, emotionally demanding, and requires restraint, empathy, and presence even on days when your own reserves are low.
Many ancient traditions, including the Biblical ones, carry this idea that freedom and restoration often come with a cost that someone, somewhere, carries weight so others can find safety. Whether understood spiritually or symbolically, it’s a way of naming a truth about human care.
That doesn’t mean suffering should be glorified, and it doesn’t mean boundaries don’t matter. It simply acknowledges that frontline care involves emotional labour and that labour deserves to be seen, respected and supported.
So, I want to say this clearly and sincerely to all frontline workers across The Salvation Army:
Thank you.
Thank you for staying present when it would have been easier to disengage.
Thank you for listening to stories that don’t resolve neatly.
Thank you for offering dignity where people may have expected dismissal.
Thank you for doing work that is often invisible but deeply meaningful.
My encouragement isn’t to do more, it’s not to give endlessly, it’s not to ignore your own limits.
It’s this: Keep noticing. Keep listening. Keep seeing what’s in front of you.
And just as importantly: Rest. Set boundaries. Let yourself be human.
Holy ground exists in ordinary places, not because they are perfect, but because people show up.
