Ocean View has an iffy rep: If you move here, the Reddit thread recommends getting "a fence, a few loud dogs and a gun."
All three are well represented in OV, where nearly 30 percent of residents live below the poverty line and stripped cars dot the lava fields. Few are connected to the electrical grid, and water is strictly catchment. It's a hardscrabble place, some might say postapocalyptic. But below the surface you'll discover solidarity, a keen sense of humor and an ascendant community.
At the heart of OV's ecosystem sits St. Jude's Episcopal Church. Dan Garrett, a volunteer with a standout singing voice, explains that St. Jude's embodies Matthew 25:35-37: "For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. ... I needed clothes and you clothed me." As you read this, someone in Ocean View is receiving one or all of these necessities from St. Jude's.
In a stroke of compassionate creativity, St. Jude's modernized this bit of Scripture: For I was alone, and you connected me. In 2010, St. Jude's opened its Wi-Fi network to OV's cadre of characters, irrespective of their religious inclinations—or lack thereof. Suddenly, the neighborhood church was buzzing with people connecting to the internet in what was previously a digital desert, and St. Jude's became known as "the patron saint of Wi-Fi." From this initiative cascaded free community services based on human kindness. "The main message is to be kind," Garrett says. "If it's greedy, self-serving, concerned with status or doesn't center on being kind, that ain't Jesus."
I roll up to St. Jude's, guided by its simple steeple tucked amid exuberant gardens, happy to see the "No Guns Allowed" signs. Like every Saturday, today is Showers and Soup—a blessing for me since a pipe burst where I'm staying. Hungry and a bit grotty, I line up behind a Marshallese woman cooing to a toddler in the sun-flooded chapel/meeting room while a smiling volunteer dispenses bowls of hearty soup. Scanning for a seat, I join a trio of scruffy older men. "I'm not telling you where I live. I don't want visitors!" says one to another, stalking off. I don't know him, but I like how he sets boundaries. I fall into easy conversation with a fellow named Paul about the home he's building using repurposed materials and piles of lava rock; we agree the soup is terrific.
St. Jude's Episcopal Church in Ocean View is a source of spiritual and digital connection for the remote Hawaii Island community.
Fortified, I head around back for a shower. Volunteers dispense shampoo, conditioner, body wash and clean towels and disinfect the stalls, grab bars included. Again, St. Jude's signage comforts: "Please do not pee in the showers." Singing, however, is allowed, I learn as I wait. I watch as a guy named Dave maneuvers his wheelchair over some aa (rough lava) chunks en route to the stall. A volunteer places a shower bench inside saying, "You're going to feel good after that hot shower, and great after your free haircut!" Food, showers, haircuts, books and, of course, Wi-Fi are available free, with zero judgment or obligation to attend church.
Noble, considering that for years the church had no priest and by 2012 the congregation numbered only a dozen. Extinction loomed. Then, in 2014, the "matriarch of St. Jude's," bishop committee member Cordelia Burt, struck on the idea of a "visiting priest" program. "Our bishop was skeptical, saying it would never work," Cordelia says, "asking priests to pay to come to Hawaii." She held firm in the conviction that a free car and house in Hawaii in exchange for a month of Sunday sermons would attract adventurous clergy. Ten years on, St. Jude's visiting priest program is filled through mid-2028, and there's a long waiting list.
"St. Jude's has an amazing group of folks doing wonderful things," says the Reverend David Hacker, on loan from his congregations in Yakima, Washington, to serve as visiting priest. "It's driven by the laity here. They're moving and shaking this place." His upbeat sermon about older generations passing the baton to the younger weaves Hawaiian concepts of generational knowledge together with the teachings of St. Francis of Assisi.
Cordelia, who celebrated her eighty-fifth birthday last June, underscores his message. "We love what we do but we're getting old. We need more volunteers and some young blood." A hard truth delivered with a smile, Cordelia hopes the next generation who comes for the Wi-Fi will stay for the community.
