(A Storytellers Collective Feature)
On Chicago’s West Side, Pastor Phil Jackson learned early that justice doesn’t begin behind a desk.
When he joined Lawndale Christian Community Church in the mid-1990s, Phil quickly realized that traditional models of ministry weren’t going to reach the young people he cared most about. Many weren’t interested in church buildings or youth centers. They were on the block, at school, in the middle of complicated lives shaped by violence, surveillance, and systems that rarely worked in their favor.
So Phil went to them.
“I needed to be at the school. I needed to be in juvenile court. I needed to be on the block,” he recalls. “That’s where the kids were.”
That choice — presence over programs, and proximity over polish — set the course for a ministry that would eventually grow into the Firehouse Community Arts Center of Chicago.
Faith That Moves Toward the Street
Rather than pulling young people into church spaces, Phil and a growing team began cultivating relationships where life was actually happening. They showed up late at night, sometimes until two in the morning — listening, de-escalating conflict, grabbing food, and walking alongside young people navigating court dates, probation, grief, and loss.
There was no script.
“I don’t have magical words,” Phil says. “I’m just trying to follow God myself and figure it out with you, in the same space.”
That posture mattered. Trust grew slowly, forged through consistency rather than sermons.
A Church Led by Young People
In 2003, that trust took visible shape through a bold experiment called The House, a monthly church service imagined, planned, and led entirely by young people.
This was no ordinary worship gathering. Rappers performed. Breakdancing battles broke out. Spoken word filled the room. Four hundred to five hundred teens and young adults showed up—not because they were invited to fit into church, but because church was reshaped around their voices, creativity, and questions.
Out of those gatherings came a simple but powerful question from the young people themselves:
“Where can we do the arts every day?”
From Firehouse to Community Anchor
That question led to film classes, cooking programs, and eventually the purchase of a former firehouse building in 2007. The Firehouse Community Arts Center was born — named for the building itself, and for the urgency of the work happening inside it.
Today, the Firehouse operates at the intersection of art, justice, and community healing through three core areas:
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Violence interruption, serving young adults caught in cycles of harm
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Spark Arts, offering prevention and creative expression through murals, dance, music, and cooking
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Workforce development, including a catering company where young people gain skills, income, and new futures
This is holistic justice, addressing not only immediate crises, but the conditions that make violence feel inevitable.
Justice with Measurable Impact
When asked about impact, Pastor Phil doesn’t reach first for stories—though there are many. He points to data.
Through a partnership with North Park University, the Firehouse tracked outcomes in the neighborhoods they serve. Since 2021, there has been a 73.7% decrease in murders in those areas.
It is a staggering number. And it is the result of years of slow, relational work—showing up, advocating in courtrooms, connecting young people to healthcare, jobs, and training, and insisting that their lives are worth investment.
What’s at Stake
Phil is clear about what happens when spaces like the Firehouse disappear.
“When something’s not there,” he says, “the message becomes: you’re not valued.”
The loss ripples outward—families destabilized, resources cut off, hope diminished. But when young people are believed in, the effects ripple the other way. Families stay housed. Streets feel safer. Kids ride bikes again. Neighbors plant gardens. Self-worth becomes contagious.
This is what collective flourishing looks like when justice is practiced locally and faithfully.
Doing the Work—Even When You’re Scared
For those beginning—or continuing—their own justice journeys, Phil offers grounded wisdom.
Find your lane, he says. Don’t try to do everything. Learn the issue deeply enough to stay for the long haul. And don’t wait until you feel ready.
“Do it scared,” he insists. “Push the envelope. Be creative.”
Justice doesn’t require perfection—only participation.
You may not be called to start an organization. You may simply be the one who shows up, sets up tables, makes a call, or says yes when something needs doing. That, Phil believes, is how movements grow.
“Never deny how great things happen because of small things.”
Why This Story Matters
The story of the Firehouse Community Arts Center reminds us that justice is not abstract. It is built through presence, imagination, and the courage to believe that young people—especially those written off by systems—carry gifts worth nurturing.
This is gospel hope made visible: through hip-hop and murals, through courtrooms and kitchens, through people who know their lane and keep showing up.
It is the story of a community saying, not just with words but with actions:
We love you. We see you. And we’ve got you.
