Letter From Boylston Street #1

This is one in a series of reflections on homelessness and my duties as a pastoral intern at St. Francis House, a daytime shelter on 39 Boylston St. in Boston (http://www.stfrancishouse.org).

I live in Theology House, the dormitory for School of Theology students, in Kenmore Square. When I returned to Theology House from vacation on the 6th, there was no hot water in the building. The water heater was broken beyond repair, and there was no spare available on campus. For two days I bathed under the tub faucet in freezing water. I couldn’t even take a cold shower, because there was no water pressure. You should have seen how gleeful I was after the heater was fixed, running the hot water from the tap with enough abandon to make a conservationist furious. When I shared my frustration with Chris, my homeless friend in Kenmore Square, he said that I now knew what it was like for him and his kind most of the time. This struck me in an odd way: I wasn’t looking to identify with Chris or his brothers and sisters on the street by telling this story.

On Sunday the 14th I worshipped at Common Cathedral, the weekly ecumenical service of Eucharist held for homeless and street people on Boston Common. On this day the inclement weather forced us to celebrate on the portico steps of the Episcopal cathedral across the street. Afterward I lingered among the congregation, waiting for the afternoon Bible study to begin. In the meantime, the homeless were lining up to receive sandwiches and snacks prepared by members of a visiting congregation. While I was resting on a chair on the portico, a teenager from the pilgrim church stopped over and asked me if I wanted a snack. This happened again moments later when a woman offered me a peanut butter sandwich. I got up to mill around, and another visiting congregant approached me to offer a warm hat. This never happened to me before at Common Cathedral. I always assumed you could tell a homeless person from a person with housing. Inside, it irked me to be confused with the homeless. Couldn’t these guests to our congregation see I wasn’t hungry or threadbare? But, then, another question: why should I be offended at being identified as one among these poor, whom I also serve?

Maybe the answer is this: because I do identify with the homeless, but I am offended by superficial identifications. It is just not true that all homeless persons do not, cannot, and will not bathe often or well, or that all homeless persons go starving and naked. However, it is true that they all go avoided and ignored, deprived and disrespected. They are not loved as well as other people. They are not nurtured or supported as well as other people. They are invisible and anonymous. What are the intrinsic identifying characteristics of the homeless? Look into their eyes, and you will see. Listen to them speak, when they do speak, and you will hear. You will know that they are forlorn, lonely, and shell-shocked. They are melancholy and sluggish. They have been beaten, cast off, and rejected forever. Many feel they’re outside God’s gracious circle. I can identify with the homeless not because I have occasionally wanted for the same material things, but because I have often wanted for the same spiritual things.

I returned to my duties on Monday, and I was feeling depressed and miserable. A few conditions at the shelter compounded my blues. This being the civic holiday, the regular day center staff was out, and we had no telephone, clothing, or shower services. We had no counseling or educational services. All this on a day that is supposed to commemorate Martin Luther King, who, last I checked, was a tireless advocate for the poor, whatever day of the year it happened to be. The day center was supposed to show a film about Martin Luther King to the guests, but someone forgot to bring it. The stand-in supervisor decided to show Charlie’s Angels instead. Charlie’s Angels? At a homeless shelter founded by Franciscan friars, whose mission is to rebuild lives, not narcotize them with ironic, mindless, sex-crazed entertainment? Incensed and despondent, I departed for the kitchen to help prepare lunch.

Though lost in a thick cloud of sad feelings, I was aware enough to notice my body language and gestures and that of our guests. We were the same: stooped over, eyes averted, moving slowly. I listened to our speech. We were the same: soft, terse, guarded, a little disconnected. I peered into several of our guests’ faces. We were the same: subdued and weary-looking, eyes and mouths drawn downward.

When lunch was concluded, we were short on volunteers for the cleanup. In an unusual move, we recruited some of the guests to assist us. As we were hustling about, it occurred to me that I couldn’t tell who was homeless and who was not. We were the same. We were servants. We were nobodies. We were poor.

God, please send men and women to love these, your poor servants, your sinners, your dear, dear children! God, please do not forget them or us when you count up your children. Remember well, comfortable reader, how, in your occasional hour of doubt, you feel rejected, maybe respected but not loved (and what good is respect when there is not love?). Then consider that, for many homeless, the hour of doubt is unending. Now dare to identify with the homeless! You can, because you can imagine, even for just a moment, a life without love, which is really no life at all. All you need is love; all you are is love. Yes, you need a great many things in order to live, including food, shelter, clothing, and the means to acquire these things. But without love, giving love and receiving love, you are nothing. This is what Jesus taught us. This is what his apostle Paul taught us. You can “live” on food, shelter, clothing, money, and respect for your fabulous gifts and talents. But in an hour of temptation Jesus said, “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes forth from the mouth of God.” This word, every one of these words, is love. Lord, we say Yes to your Yes. Please say Yes to us.