Pastor Donovan Price stands in a parking lot just south of 87^th Street along the Dan Ryan Expressway every Monday night. Always there are a few others. On this Monday there are 12.

Why here, in this shopping center parking lot? Why Chatham? Three years ago, Chicago descended into a week of bedlam after a Minneapolis police officer murdered George Floyd. There were protests, and then rioting, and then looting. And who can see the first spark of any fire, really, but there was looting here in a neighborhood, at the beginning of looting in the neighborhoods, so this is where Price and the others stand every Monday every summer.  

The weekend after the rioting began, dozens of people were shot in Chicago, at least 15 fatally. So much chaos that not every shooting got a detective response. People whose job or call is violence — Price and other clergy, street outreach workers, police officers, firefighters — have all described the sense of lawlessness and chaos that pervaded the city. Something broke. There was an electricity in the air that lingered for months, if not longer.

This Monday ritual, though not tied to a single shooting, is a continuation of Price’s ministry, his work to help people near violence through his faith. Price’s faith has sharpened over the years, though, it seems just as common that people turn away from faith in the face of so much violence. He’s a pastor at New Progressive Missionary Baptist near 95th and Perry in Roseland and director of a nonprofit that offers, among other things, victim advocacy and trauma resources. 

So for seven years now he’s been practicing his ministry this way — through belief in prayer, belief in the ability to will something into existence, but also belief in utility and acts. His high school’s motto was “ora et labora,” or loosely, “prayer and labor” or “pray and work,” something he’s internalized scene to scene. Prayer is fine, but sometimes it’s more important to have an advocate.

The weekend of the rioting — almost exactly three years ago — Price saw the city around him burning. He couldn’t find an open store that sold milk, bread, or frozen pizza, and had to travel to Homewood. That weekend he stood outside a liquor store where people carried out looted cases of beer and liquor, without meeting any resistance or there being any sense of this moment a break in society. He asked if any wanted to pray. A couple stopped, and prayed. A small thing during chaos, but it felt real and stuck with him these years later.

During the week, and even more on weekends, he visits crime scenes and seeks out people who might benefit from prayer. He gets information the same way reporters do — talking with police and residents, asking for phone numbers — and then he goes wherever someone might need help and asks. He offers concrete assistance too: gift cards to replace food spoiled during a hospital stay, or bandages for wound care once discharged. 

So 87^th and the Ryan. Where Price regroups after every Monday, where he gets ready for the week ahead. He’s husky, bearded, and his head is shaved. He wears a black short-sleeved button-up with the words “Street pastor,” “Victim advocate,” and “Hope” on the back. White-and-tan custom shoes with Christian images — thorned crown, iron nails, blood spatter. A cross. On this Monday a wildfire haze shaded the setting sun behind the shopping center. 

While Price speaks, a man works on cars a couple parking aisles over. To the north, the Sears Tower is the only visible part of the skyline, between trees and billboards. There’s a din, from the expressway. An occasional revving engine from a car speeding down Lafayette, which parallels the Ryan.

To the gathered he recounts his travels over Memorial Day weekend, the deadliest in at least seven years. Twelve murders that weekend. Then, mass shootings. Four shot in Englewood, at 70^th and Halsted. Five shot at 42^nd and Wells in Fuller Park on a Wednesday; the youngest victim was 14 and he died. Sunday morning, middle of the night, seven shot at Cicero and Iowa in Austin. A 25-year-old woman died.

“Every other day,” Price says. “I’m kind of almost getting used to some of the stuff that I would not like to get used to.”

He can’t make it to every shooting. No one can. He has to choose, just like anyone, and prioritizes homicides and kids and mass shootings because the need is greater there, much as you can quantify the need for faith or prioritize. But the point is he has to triage, anyone near violence in this city has to triage, because there’s so much.

When the prayer begins here, there are eight people; the 12th to show is a man wearing a black baseball cap that reads “Vietnam veteran” and has the green, yellow, and red Vietnam service ribbon embroidered across the front. Price steps back to widen the circle for him.

Toward the end of the night, a man pulls across a couple parking spots in a dented silver car with its hood bungee-strapped down, leans his head a little toward the circle and closes his eyes. When Price breaks from the circle after a soft chorus of “Amen,” the driver raises his voice to tell Price he loves what the pastor was doing, and offered to the group a Bible verse, Romans 10:15. (He didn’t quote it, but it reads: “And how shall they preach unless they are sent? As it is written: ‘How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the gospel of peace, Who bring glad tidings of good things!’”)

The driver said he was a church man himself and that this all may seem small, but it’s proof of the Holy Spirit within Price, and everyone there.