Still backtracking ... see Boylston Street Letter #9.
The week of April 23-27, 2007
“After this I had a vision of a great multitude, which no one could count, from every nation, race, people, and tongue.”
These are the white-robed saints who have survived fierce persecutions, and they stand before the throne of God giving thanks to the source of their salvation. In John’s vision the elder says, “For this reason they stand before God’s throne and worship him day and night in his temple. The one who sits on the throne will shelter them.”
The one who sits on the throne will shelter them. Shelter them.
Do I need to go on? Do we not remember what else God promises these white-robed saints? “They will not hunger or thirst anymore, nor will the sun or any heat strike them. For the Lamb who is in the center of the throne will shepherd them and lead them to springs of life-giving water, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes” (Revelation 7:16-17).
I have not read enough liberation theology to know whether Revelation is used as a programmatic text by its leading theorists. I suspect these rich, deeply thick passages would be congenial to their work. I say this by way of apology for what I write next. Forgive me if the following strikes you as an egregious lapse of good exegetical sense.
I have seen the great multitude John has seen, the people from every nation, race, people, and tongue. They are the homeless. They are not yet holding palm branches, for they have no reason to celebrate. There has been no final victory. There is no joy. They are not yet wearing the white robes, for their rags have not yet been washed white in the blood of the Lamb. Their rags are washed in their own blood, stained in their own sweat and bathed in their own tears.
They are on the move, the men and women of this multitude. They move through dirty streets over broken glass and under breaking skies and always lost in broken dreams. They wait in long, lonely lines for their daily bread—breakfast, lunch, and dinner; a chance to bathe, a chance to place a call, and a bed at night if they’re lucky and not late. They move through metal detectors and security checks; they move through clinics, counseling offices, and cafeterias; they move through prison cells and halfway homes. They are moving in between dusk and dawn; they are moving in the storm, never in the calm between. They are always moving, but they are never arriving. How far away is God’s throne?
They are not crying out with a loud voice, “Salvation comes from our God.” They are crying out, “How long, O Lord?”
When I see the multitude streaming to the hospitality desk, sometimes I want to leave my post and follow. I want to find out if it is really true that the poor are the privileged channel of God’s grace, as Jon Sobrino says. Where do these men and women come from, and where do they go? And what does God and grace mean to them, anyway?
Nine months at St. Francis House and I’m still puzzled by the poor. I fear the temptations of privilege, but I fear more the spirits, benevolent and malign, that grace and afflict poverty.
Poverty is dull and boring. It is rude and violent. It is not patient, it is not kind, it is not pleasing, it is not comfortable, it thwarts all interests, it aggravates all injuries, it hovers over wrongdoing, and it mourns with the silenced truth. It refuses all things, doubts all things, despairs of all things, surrenders to all things.
Poverty always fails.
And yet … and yet …
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
I have met many wise and gentle souls at the shelter. Their good cheer despite the numbing routine of the day center continues to surprise me. Their simplicity and strength of faith, as shown to me in the Bible study, gives me cause to rejoice quietly. Their piety is unaffected and never simplistic. Grace, amazing or otherwise, must be with them, because with them I have learned the fears of poverty, but I have also had other fears lessened. Without the least exhibitionism, they have shown me what hunger and thirst look like, and they have prayed with me for their relief. And I have prayed with them for God’s mercy and justice, and above all that God’s ways become our ways.
God willing, St. Francis House has done some small part of the works of mercy and justice. I do not know where my pilgrim journey goes from here, but I hope to walk with Jesus and the Twelve and Paul and all the disciples, who tell me:
Remember the poor.
Remember the poor.
Remember the poor.
And when you do,
Remember faith, hope, and charity.
Remember that many have not chosen to be poor, but you can choose to serve among the poor.
Finally, if the kingdom of heaven is like a magnificent house with many rooms, I expect the homeless men and women to occupy the rooms “nearest” to God. If there is such a thing as a beatific vision, anything that accords with the vision of John, may the homeless be at the head of the multitude that stands in glory before the throne of God. And if this is God’s will for blessed, broken, and beloved humanity, let God’s will be done on earth as it is in heaven! Amen.
Showing posts with label homelessness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label homelessness. Show all posts
Friday, August 3, 2007
Boylston Street Letter #12
Still backtracking ... see Boylston Street Letter #9.
The week of April 9-13, 2007
What do the resurrection stories mean to the homeless? To you? To me? What do they do to us?
On Friday at my Bible study group discussed the resurrection appearances in John 20:19-31 and drew upon related texts in Chapters 20 and 21. At one juncture we were exploring the differences between the appearance to Mary Magdalene and the appearance to Thomas. Jesus tells Mary, “Do not hold on to me,” which to me does not exclude a physical holding or clinging to the body of Jesus, though this interpretation has gone out of fashion (the Latin “Noli me tangere” has a strong “hold” on me). On the other hand, Jesus says to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Why does Jesus invite Thomas to do what he forbids Mary to do, encountering his risen body? Does Jesus want us to touch the wounds or not? Questions, I had a few….
Do you remember the guest I previously dubbed the “Scripture savant”? The one who tends to monopolize the discussion when he comes to Bible study? Well, he was there Friday, and he had more than a few ideas he wanted to share. Thomas exclaims “My Lord and my God!” but, as our guest noted, there is no evidence that he actually takes up Jesus’ invitation. Seeking to harmonize these appearance stories, he commented that Jesus really didn’t want us to touch the wounds, and he invited Thomas to touch the wounds knowing that Thomas wouldn’t really do it. And then he added that Jesus knew touching those wounds would traumatize Thomas too much. Wow!
I replied that Jesus Christ really does want us to touch the wounds. Perhaps at the appearance to Mary Magdalene, because Christ had not yet ascended to the Father and given the Spirit, it was not yet time to touch the wounds. But by the time of the appearance to Thomas, Jesus had already breathed on the disciples and told them to receive the Holy Spirit, and so he could challenge Thomas to touch the wounds. I said that maybe Jesus’ challenge to Thomas is a challenge to all of us—it is traumatizing to have a real encounter with the broken, wounded body of Christ, but we are asked to “touch” it, anyway. Still, why would Jesus have us “put our finger here” and “reach out our hand” when that’s so risky, so dangerous? Isn’t God violated? Aren’t we violated? Is trauma an inevitable symptom of the divine-human encounter? Do we receive the Spirit before we touch the wounds, as we touch the wounds, after we touch the wounds? This hour of Bible study stirred lots of questions, few answers, and no certainties.
I shared these reflections with Professor Rambo, who has made trauma theory her specialty as she develops a pneumatology around the Johannine gospel and the experience of Holy Saturday. She wrote: “Perhaps in touching the wounds, Thomas is reoriented to his own woundedness. Perhaps in seeing the wounds, we are confronted with our own humanity (in all of its complexities) and, in turn, to see the woundedness of life and see the promise of life/love emerging from practices of witnessing to woundedness….
“It has always been interesting to me that the scars of the cross remain. It is a mark of our woundedness, but it is not an open wound. It does not threaten; instead, it reminds. What about thinking of the wounds as both a reminder of the death and the promise of life emerging from it … when Thomas touches, perhaps he is witnessing to the first movement of the Holy Spirit, in the touching of wounded flesh….”
She also cited a Johannine commentary by Hans Urs von Balthasar in which he asks us to enter the wound of Christ, to touch his heart, by which we “touch the pulse of God’s purpose for creation—to love.” Christ invites us to touch the wounds of his body so that we may love! I am reminded now of something else the Scripture savant said. To touch the body of Christ is an overpowering experience—even the briefest brush with it could be devastating. But in this contact with the divine wounds we are restored, not destroyed; empowered to believe, not to doubt; freed to live, not doomed to die.
I am counting on the resurrection power these days in ways I never did before. By it I seek forgiveness and wholeness; through it I expect to see the world transformed now, and not only in the future. I hope for greater things, and ardently I wish for others to be grasped by the promises of new life in the Spirit of God. I don’t think it is an accident that this turn in my faith and thought has come about while at the shelter, where I have come to know some very expectant men and women.
The week of April 9-13, 2007
What do the resurrection stories mean to the homeless? To you? To me? What do they do to us?
On Friday at my Bible study group discussed the resurrection appearances in John 20:19-31 and drew upon related texts in Chapters 20 and 21. At one juncture we were exploring the differences between the appearance to Mary Magdalene and the appearance to Thomas. Jesus tells Mary, “Do not hold on to me,” which to me does not exclude a physical holding or clinging to the body of Jesus, though this interpretation has gone out of fashion (the Latin “Noli me tangere” has a strong “hold” on me). On the other hand, Jesus says to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Why does Jesus invite Thomas to do what he forbids Mary to do, encountering his risen body? Does Jesus want us to touch the wounds or not? Questions, I had a few….
Do you remember the guest I previously dubbed the “Scripture savant”? The one who tends to monopolize the discussion when he comes to Bible study? Well, he was there Friday, and he had more than a few ideas he wanted to share. Thomas exclaims “My Lord and my God!” but, as our guest noted, there is no evidence that he actually takes up Jesus’ invitation. Seeking to harmonize these appearance stories, he commented that Jesus really didn’t want us to touch the wounds, and he invited Thomas to touch the wounds knowing that Thomas wouldn’t really do it. And then he added that Jesus knew touching those wounds would traumatize Thomas too much. Wow!
I replied that Jesus Christ really does want us to touch the wounds. Perhaps at the appearance to Mary Magdalene, because Christ had not yet ascended to the Father and given the Spirit, it was not yet time to touch the wounds. But by the time of the appearance to Thomas, Jesus had already breathed on the disciples and told them to receive the Holy Spirit, and so he could challenge Thomas to touch the wounds. I said that maybe Jesus’ challenge to Thomas is a challenge to all of us—it is traumatizing to have a real encounter with the broken, wounded body of Christ, but we are asked to “touch” it, anyway. Still, why would Jesus have us “put our finger here” and “reach out our hand” when that’s so risky, so dangerous? Isn’t God violated? Aren’t we violated? Is trauma an inevitable symptom of the divine-human encounter? Do we receive the Spirit before we touch the wounds, as we touch the wounds, after we touch the wounds? This hour of Bible study stirred lots of questions, few answers, and no certainties.
I shared these reflections with Professor Rambo, who has made trauma theory her specialty as she develops a pneumatology around the Johannine gospel and the experience of Holy Saturday. She wrote: “Perhaps in touching the wounds, Thomas is reoriented to his own woundedness. Perhaps in seeing the wounds, we are confronted with our own humanity (in all of its complexities) and, in turn, to see the woundedness of life and see the promise of life/love emerging from practices of witnessing to woundedness….
“It has always been interesting to me that the scars of the cross remain. It is a mark of our woundedness, but it is not an open wound. It does not threaten; instead, it reminds. What about thinking of the wounds as both a reminder of the death and the promise of life emerging from it … when Thomas touches, perhaps he is witnessing to the first movement of the Holy Spirit, in the touching of wounded flesh….”
She also cited a Johannine commentary by Hans Urs von Balthasar in which he asks us to enter the wound of Christ, to touch his heart, by which we “touch the pulse of God’s purpose for creation—to love.” Christ invites us to touch the wounds of his body so that we may love! I am reminded now of something else the Scripture savant said. To touch the body of Christ is an overpowering experience—even the briefest brush with it could be devastating. But in this contact with the divine wounds we are restored, not destroyed; empowered to believe, not to doubt; freed to live, not doomed to die.
I am counting on the resurrection power these days in ways I never did before. By it I seek forgiveness and wholeness; through it I expect to see the world transformed now, and not only in the future. I hope for greater things, and ardently I wish for others to be grasped by the promises of new life in the Spirit of God. I don’t think it is an accident that this turn in my faith and thought has come about while at the shelter, where I have come to know some very expectant men and women.
Boylston Street Letter #11
Still backtracking ... see Boylston Street Letter #9.
The week of April 2-6, 2007
I witnessed the dying of a religious symbol here on Holy Thursday.
The ritual of foot-washing, which has its origins in the account of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet at the Last Supper (John 13:1-20), has been performed here for many years, I am told. All who work in the shelter are invited to participate, and all the guests are welcome. This year I was invited to give the reading from Paul recounting of the institution of the Eucharist (1 Corinthians 11:23-26). Karen LaFrazia, the executive director of St. Francis House, would wash the feet. I was looking forward to a beautiful re-presentation of Jesus’ consecration of servant leadership, as fine a sacramental ritual as the Church possesses.
Only the guests weren’t buying into it.
It took some coaxing from Karen and staff to bring several guests into the large classroom of the day center for the prayer and ritual. As I understand it, some guests balked at joining the foot-washing service because the shelter already provides foot care daily in the clinic, including soakings, massages, and pedicures, as well as the provision of clean socks. What more could this religious service do? Ironically, as staff approached the hospitality desk to make another announcement about the foot-washing over the public address, one of the foot care volunteers got to the microphone first to advertise the podiatric services in the clinic! Once we had several guests assembled with staff, we began our service, proceeding quickly to the foot-washing. Several staff persons and volunteers removed their shoes and socks. However, I noticed that none of the guests removed their footwear. Karen had finished making her rounds with her pitcher of warm water and plastic basin, and none of the guests had participated in the washing. Then, at last, one guest changed his mind. B.K., whom I know to be Catholic and must be in his late fifties or early sixties, moved from the back row to the front. He sat down to my immediate left and said, “Okay, I’m doing this on behalf of all of the guests here in St. Francis House.” Then Karen washed his feet lovingly, even gratefully. And B.K. thanked her with words of blessing. The service was over.
I have many theories as to why the guests did not choose to participate in this ritual. First, there is the matter of the redundancy with the foot care in the clinic. Our guests would be absolutely right to judge the “real” ministry to be occurring daily in the clinic, and I would not fault them for viewing the Holy Thursday service as a pale shadow of the former, a thing staged more for the benefit of the staff, seeking to assure itself how benevolent it is. Second, these are homeless people who have very little to their name except their dignity and pride. I can imagine that, in their position, to take off your shoes and present your feet for washing would be humiliating instead of empowering. Even to suggest gently to our guests that they remove their shoes can be construed as an affront to their dignity. Third, I don’t know how many guests are familiar with the origins and meaning of the ritual, but I surmise that even if they did, the guests could not believe that Karen was truly humbling herself by washing their feet. After all, Jesus was a genuine servant leader who surrendered his authority and his equality with God to be on an equal level with his disciples, if not lesser. On the other hand, when the foot-washing ritual was over, Karen would still be the executive director of the largest daytime shelter in New England, and the homeless would still be homeless.
What can you do when a symbol, a sign-act, loses its meaning? Well, I think you need to smash the symbol to pieces and reconstruct the symbol in a different way. Maybe the symbol of foot-washing never had any significance for our guests in the first place. We have ways of finding out what the symbol “does” to them. Robert Neville would interrogate the broken symbols like this: 1) how do we interpret the symbols being used; 2) what are the practical consequences of using these symbols; and 3) what is the state of the soul of the one affected by the symbol? I think the preceding reflections have addressed the first two questions; as to the third, I remain lost in contemplation. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever “know” the soul of the homeless. Touching the sacred with them is a delicate undertaking. I pray that, in the five weeks I have left at the shelter, I may gently share in our guests’ stories and traditions and all the things that give their life meaning. Perhaps we may discover a common, holy ground and remove our shoes together.
The week of April 2-6, 2007
I witnessed the dying of a religious symbol here on Holy Thursday.
The ritual of foot-washing, which has its origins in the account of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet at the Last Supper (John 13:1-20), has been performed here for many years, I am told. All who work in the shelter are invited to participate, and all the guests are welcome. This year I was invited to give the reading from Paul recounting of the institution of the Eucharist (1 Corinthians 11:23-26). Karen LaFrazia, the executive director of St. Francis House, would wash the feet. I was looking forward to a beautiful re-presentation of Jesus’ consecration of servant leadership, as fine a sacramental ritual as the Church possesses.
Only the guests weren’t buying into it.
It took some coaxing from Karen and staff to bring several guests into the large classroom of the day center for the prayer and ritual. As I understand it, some guests balked at joining the foot-washing service because the shelter already provides foot care daily in the clinic, including soakings, massages, and pedicures, as well as the provision of clean socks. What more could this religious service do? Ironically, as staff approached the hospitality desk to make another announcement about the foot-washing over the public address, one of the foot care volunteers got to the microphone first to advertise the podiatric services in the clinic! Once we had several guests assembled with staff, we began our service, proceeding quickly to the foot-washing. Several staff persons and volunteers removed their shoes and socks. However, I noticed that none of the guests removed their footwear. Karen had finished making her rounds with her pitcher of warm water and plastic basin, and none of the guests had participated in the washing. Then, at last, one guest changed his mind. B.K., whom I know to be Catholic and must be in his late fifties or early sixties, moved from the back row to the front. He sat down to my immediate left and said, “Okay, I’m doing this on behalf of all of the guests here in St. Francis House.” Then Karen washed his feet lovingly, even gratefully. And B.K. thanked her with words of blessing. The service was over.
I have many theories as to why the guests did not choose to participate in this ritual. First, there is the matter of the redundancy with the foot care in the clinic. Our guests would be absolutely right to judge the “real” ministry to be occurring daily in the clinic, and I would not fault them for viewing the Holy Thursday service as a pale shadow of the former, a thing staged more for the benefit of the staff, seeking to assure itself how benevolent it is. Second, these are homeless people who have very little to their name except their dignity and pride. I can imagine that, in their position, to take off your shoes and present your feet for washing would be humiliating instead of empowering. Even to suggest gently to our guests that they remove their shoes can be construed as an affront to their dignity. Third, I don’t know how many guests are familiar with the origins and meaning of the ritual, but I surmise that even if they did, the guests could not believe that Karen was truly humbling herself by washing their feet. After all, Jesus was a genuine servant leader who surrendered his authority and his equality with God to be on an equal level with his disciples, if not lesser. On the other hand, when the foot-washing ritual was over, Karen would still be the executive director of the largest daytime shelter in New England, and the homeless would still be homeless.
What can you do when a symbol, a sign-act, loses its meaning? Well, I think you need to smash the symbol to pieces and reconstruct the symbol in a different way. Maybe the symbol of foot-washing never had any significance for our guests in the first place. We have ways of finding out what the symbol “does” to them. Robert Neville would interrogate the broken symbols like this: 1) how do we interpret the symbols being used; 2) what are the practical consequences of using these symbols; and 3) what is the state of the soul of the one affected by the symbol? I think the preceding reflections have addressed the first two questions; as to the third, I remain lost in contemplation. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever “know” the soul of the homeless. Touching the sacred with them is a delicate undertaking. I pray that, in the five weeks I have left at the shelter, I may gently share in our guests’ stories and traditions and all the things that give their life meaning. Perhaps we may discover a common, holy ground and remove our shoes together.
Boylston Street Letter #10
Still backtracking ... see Boylston Street Letter #9.
The week of March 26-30, 2007
More than ever, I regret that I don’t know how to speak Spanish.
On Monday we held a Lenten morning prayer in the day center using the lectionary readings for the feast of the Annunciation. Like a service of morning prayer we conducted during Advent, this service was open to our Spanish-speaking guests. A Capuchin Franciscan brother who does counseling and intake with the guests and is fluent in Spanish assisted me in the preparations. Now, let me confess that our prayer was not planned quite as we had advertised it. We announced that the prayer was going to be bilingual, but in reality the prayer was in English with one reading, the Gospel of Luke, in Spanish. You see, in December we prepared the opening and closing hymn in English and Spanish as well as every reading from Scripture. We were looking forward to an enthusiastic response from our Spanish-speaking guests, but in the end none came. Therefore, this time around we hedged our bets: we invited all to come to our prayer whatever their native language, but we expected to have an Anglo audience and planned accordingly.
Well, on this Monday we had one English-speaking guest and five Spanish-speaking guests. They were attracted to the large classroom where we were worshipping because we were offering coffee and breakfast pastries. The only trouble was, they did not seem much interested in participating in our prayer, despite my Capuchin partner’s communication of our purpose to them. The atmosphere became uncomfortable for me as our guests looked at us in bewilderment. Why were we handing them songsheets written in English, when we knew they couldn’t read a single word of the lyrics? And why did we go on singing words they could not hear?
All our Bibles were in English, and I had only one copy of the Spanish text of Luke’s Gospel for the Franciscan friar to read. Feeling desperation, in haste I asked the Capuchin to translate the verses I would be reading from Isaiah as we proceeded. This he did heroically, but the effect was not very prayerful, and our Spanish guests grew only more disengaged. Murmuring, two of them carried on some bit of merriment between them, laughing among themselves, sharing what I worried was a kind of malicious delight in our linguistic difficulties. We tried to recite one of the psalms responsorially, but this was a spectacular failure. By this time our sole English-speaking guest had become restless, telling me he couldn’t understand what we were saying with the Bible—that it wasn’t the way his preacher had taught him to understand it. In the meantime, a couple of guests had walked in for some coffee, oblivious to the prayer going on. Their insensitivity offended our English-speaking guest, and he rebuked them. At this point I lost my cool, and I sternly warned everybody to attend to the purpose of this gathering, which was to hear the Word of God and be still before God’s presence.
Everybody got the message, regardless of their native tongue, and we continued with the Gospel of Luke in Spanish, then English. We paused for silence, then we attempted some prayers and petitions. This did not work well, and the fellow who said he couldn’t understand how we were reading the Bible made a protest and left before we concluded. (Meanwhile, the other two guests who had come in for the coffee, both English speakers, stayed on.) The snickering continued among a couple of the Spanish speakers, and we ended with an awkward Our Father in Spanish. During that prayer I moved my lips, but no words came out.
I felt so foolish after the service was over. I’ve been working at the shelter for over seven months; I should have known better than to prepare a prayer expecting a certain kind of turnout. I forgot one of the axioms of pastoral ministry to the homeless: you don’t prepare, you get ready.
See what happens when you make plans? I don’t need to read the story of the Tower of Babel to be convinced that God delights in undermining our unitary designs. But what makes this incident different from the Babel story is that our tongues were already confused before we met, and we never intended to do the same work. Even the English speaker was speaking a different language from the Capuchin Franciscan and me. We acted like Pentecost had never happened. But we are living on the other side of Pentecost, and we have the gift of the Spirit to help us interpret tongues—to translate, not transliterate. We can do better. And if I can’t learn Spanish, at least I can speak Christian.
The week of March 26-30, 2007
More than ever, I regret that I don’t know how to speak Spanish.
On Monday we held a Lenten morning prayer in the day center using the lectionary readings for the feast of the Annunciation. Like a service of morning prayer we conducted during Advent, this service was open to our Spanish-speaking guests. A Capuchin Franciscan brother who does counseling and intake with the guests and is fluent in Spanish assisted me in the preparations. Now, let me confess that our prayer was not planned quite as we had advertised it. We announced that the prayer was going to be bilingual, but in reality the prayer was in English with one reading, the Gospel of Luke, in Spanish. You see, in December we prepared the opening and closing hymn in English and Spanish as well as every reading from Scripture. We were looking forward to an enthusiastic response from our Spanish-speaking guests, but in the end none came. Therefore, this time around we hedged our bets: we invited all to come to our prayer whatever their native language, but we expected to have an Anglo audience and planned accordingly.
Well, on this Monday we had one English-speaking guest and five Spanish-speaking guests. They were attracted to the large classroom where we were worshipping because we were offering coffee and breakfast pastries. The only trouble was, they did not seem much interested in participating in our prayer, despite my Capuchin partner’s communication of our purpose to them. The atmosphere became uncomfortable for me as our guests looked at us in bewilderment. Why were we handing them songsheets written in English, when we knew they couldn’t read a single word of the lyrics? And why did we go on singing words they could not hear?
All our Bibles were in English, and I had only one copy of the Spanish text of Luke’s Gospel for the Franciscan friar to read. Feeling desperation, in haste I asked the Capuchin to translate the verses I would be reading from Isaiah as we proceeded. This he did heroically, but the effect was not very prayerful, and our Spanish guests grew only more disengaged. Murmuring, two of them carried on some bit of merriment between them, laughing among themselves, sharing what I worried was a kind of malicious delight in our linguistic difficulties. We tried to recite one of the psalms responsorially, but this was a spectacular failure. By this time our sole English-speaking guest had become restless, telling me he couldn’t understand what we were saying with the Bible—that it wasn’t the way his preacher had taught him to understand it. In the meantime, a couple of guests had walked in for some coffee, oblivious to the prayer going on. Their insensitivity offended our English-speaking guest, and he rebuked them. At this point I lost my cool, and I sternly warned everybody to attend to the purpose of this gathering, which was to hear the Word of God and be still before God’s presence.
Everybody got the message, regardless of their native tongue, and we continued with the Gospel of Luke in Spanish, then English. We paused for silence, then we attempted some prayers and petitions. This did not work well, and the fellow who said he couldn’t understand how we were reading the Bible made a protest and left before we concluded. (Meanwhile, the other two guests who had come in for the coffee, both English speakers, stayed on.) The snickering continued among a couple of the Spanish speakers, and we ended with an awkward Our Father in Spanish. During that prayer I moved my lips, but no words came out.
I felt so foolish after the service was over. I’ve been working at the shelter for over seven months; I should have known better than to prepare a prayer expecting a certain kind of turnout. I forgot one of the axioms of pastoral ministry to the homeless: you don’t prepare, you get ready.
See what happens when you make plans? I don’t need to read the story of the Tower of Babel to be convinced that God delights in undermining our unitary designs. But what makes this incident different from the Babel story is that our tongues were already confused before we met, and we never intended to do the same work. Even the English speaker was speaking a different language from the Capuchin Franciscan and me. We acted like Pentecost had never happened. But we are living on the other side of Pentecost, and we have the gift of the Spirit to help us interpret tongues—to translate, not transliterate. We can do better. And if I can’t learn Spanish, at least I can speak Christian.
Boylston Street Letter #9
One in an occasional 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). Apologies for the long-delayed backtracking.
The week of March 19-23, 2007
I have little to report, but much to ask. Please keep Mallory in your prayers. Her life is in danger, so soon after her day of glory.
She graduated from our Moving Ahead Program on March 16, certainly one of the proudest, most hopeful moments in her life. I could not be present to cheer for her because I was demonstrating in Washington, DC. If only I could have been there and here in Boston. I thought of her, and I thought about how good it would be to resume our Friday afternoon tutorials, moving from mathematics to reading comprehension and writing skills. She could continue striving for her GED and continue rebuilding her life. Our routine, one of many healthy routines she had adopted, would go on as before.
But life is not working out that way, because Mallory has become homeless. Not figuratively in the way I have described homelessness before, but literally. Recently she was booted from the recovery residence she was living in because she allegedly failed a urine test three times. (Mallory vigorously denies she could have failed the tests and has claimed it was discrimination because she is a transgender person.) She is practically penniless, and despite her job skills training through our program she is having difficulty finding employment. Finding work and low-income shelter is complicated because of her CORI status and the short length of time she has maintained sobriety.
Speaking to me and to the MAP admissions director, she confessed that if she does not succeed in finding a place to live and work to do in Boston, she will have no choice but to return to Springfield, where, she said, she would very likely meet her demise among bad company.
As dire a scenario this is, I thought to myself, our shelter’s life skills program really works, because there’s no way Mallory would have realized before that her way of life in Springfield was leading her to an untimely death. She has discovered a community in Boston that is nurturing her into new being, and she knows she can rely on a network of support broad enough to meet all her needs and deep enough to sustain her through many crises. In her mind, to return to Springfield is become entangled in a web of disease and dysfunction, to places that deform the better habits of the mind and heart. Mallory knows where temptation lies; she believes she has been delivered from a host of evils, and she does not want to be rendered into their clutches again.
But time and circumstances are conspiring against her wish to stay in Boston. She is shuttling around the city meeting with housing, employment, and CORI counselors and other social services specialists to work an eleventh-hour miracle. Understandably, she has no time now to continue tutorials with me. She regrets it, but she said her life is really in a mess.
I told her that I cannot help her much now, but I will do the best for her I can—I will pray. You can do that, too, so pray with me for Mallory.
The week of March 19-23, 2007
I have little to report, but much to ask. Please keep Mallory in your prayers. Her life is in danger, so soon after her day of glory.
She graduated from our Moving Ahead Program on March 16, certainly one of the proudest, most hopeful moments in her life. I could not be present to cheer for her because I was demonstrating in Washington, DC. If only I could have been there and here in Boston. I thought of her, and I thought about how good it would be to resume our Friday afternoon tutorials, moving from mathematics to reading comprehension and writing skills. She could continue striving for her GED and continue rebuilding her life. Our routine, one of many healthy routines she had adopted, would go on as before.
But life is not working out that way, because Mallory has become homeless. Not figuratively in the way I have described homelessness before, but literally. Recently she was booted from the recovery residence she was living in because she allegedly failed a urine test three times. (Mallory vigorously denies she could have failed the tests and has claimed it was discrimination because she is a transgender person.) She is practically penniless, and despite her job skills training through our program she is having difficulty finding employment. Finding work and low-income shelter is complicated because of her CORI status and the short length of time she has maintained sobriety.
Speaking to me and to the MAP admissions director, she confessed that if she does not succeed in finding a place to live and work to do in Boston, she will have no choice but to return to Springfield, where, she said, she would very likely meet her demise among bad company.
As dire a scenario this is, I thought to myself, our shelter’s life skills program really works, because there’s no way Mallory would have realized before that her way of life in Springfield was leading her to an untimely death. She has discovered a community in Boston that is nurturing her into new being, and she knows she can rely on a network of support broad enough to meet all her needs and deep enough to sustain her through many crises. In her mind, to return to Springfield is become entangled in a web of disease and dysfunction, to places that deform the better habits of the mind and heart. Mallory knows where temptation lies; she believes she has been delivered from a host of evils, and she does not want to be rendered into their clutches again.
But time and circumstances are conspiring against her wish to stay in Boston. She is shuttling around the city meeting with housing, employment, and CORI counselors and other social services specialists to work an eleventh-hour miracle. Understandably, she has no time now to continue tutorials with me. She regrets it, but she said her life is really in a mess.
I told her that I cannot help her much now, but I will do the best for her I can—I will pray. You can do that, too, so pray with me for Mallory.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Boylston Street Letter #8
One in an occasional 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).
The week of March 5-9, 2007
The kingdom of God has been proclaimed, but it has not yet come. Lord, am I aware that it has not yet come! When competition defeats cooperation, when contract nullifies covenant, I know the kingdom has not yet come. When I know sin, I realize that the kingdom has not yet come. When I am sin, definitely I know that the kingdom has yet to come.
But the kingdom has been proclaimed. I’ve heard it! Sometimes I, too, have spoken words that heralded the Word that makes of everything a new creation. It really happens, and the optimist in me believes that it happens with us as often as it happens in spite of us.
Every man, woman, and child who practices social ministry ought to imagine standing between the times: between life as it is and life as they believe it will be. We begin where life is as it is, and we move toward life as it will be, and those in the Church are at the boundary of time present and time future. Or, picture another image for the Church: an isthmus. The Church is the land bridge between two great continents, the present world and the new creation. All of humanity from all time has been on a great migration from the first creation to the final creation, and it is our generation’s turn to cross from one to the other, guided safely over via the isthmus.
What does this have to do with the shelter?
I experienced two moments on the boundary of time, or along the narrow land bridge, on Friday. First, during Bible study, a guest (let me call him Deacon Jones) who joined us for the first time used the hour to offer his own catalog of Augustinian confessions. I knew Deacon Jones nominally before this; I knew only that he was one of the most well-mannered gentlemen I’ve met in the shelter. After hearing Jesus’ teaching about repentance in Luke 13:1-9, he testified both to the wretchedness of his circumstances and the glory of God transfiguring him. It is easier to believe we are simul justus et peccator after hearing Deacon Jones speaking gently but intensely about the misery and mercy of homelessness: the sleeplessness, the hunger, the cold, “snapping” on the streets, being held at knifepoint; yet also praising God for surviving another day on the streets, finding plenty in spite of sinful scarcity, and stepping out on faith to break up lethal fights. His witness shames me into silence. Have I forgotten the meaning of penitence? When a truly impoverished person testifies, you get the impression that none but the poor are genuinely remorseful about failing to pray to God or read the Bible. Trust that impression. His kind of faith sharing does not happen all the time, so you must be ready to listen. It was all I could dare to do. All mortal flesh must keep silence in the presence of Christ and his saints. Deacon Jones was a saint in that hour. Looking back on that morning, I’ve concluded that it is a good thing to study the written Word, but it is a far better thing to study the man or woman who becomes a talking book, a living Word.
Second, the transgender student Mallory fell down, but she rose again. She called me early in the afternoon to apologize for deciding to quit our weekly GED tutorials, offering that her life was complicated, and she needed time to sort it out. However, less than half an hour later, she called back and changed her mind: she wanted to continue, after all. That afternoon was the most productive of all our tutorials. She was getting the hang of reading, comparing, and adding decimals despite no prior experience with anything but whole numbers! So delighted was Mallory by her accomplishment that her melancholy had all but disappeared by the end of the afternoon. I had never seen her so proud of herself! And it made me regret having to tell her I could not attend her graduation from the Moving Ahead Program on March 16 because I will be in Washington. But I know she will be waiting for me when I return: we have to work on reading comprehension and writing skills. She insisted on it.
We’ve come too far to turn back. We must go forward. The kingdom is not yet here, but it is on its way, and it graces every dream Deacon Jones, Mallory, and I have.
The week of March 5-9, 2007
The kingdom of God has been proclaimed, but it has not yet come. Lord, am I aware that it has not yet come! When competition defeats cooperation, when contract nullifies covenant, I know the kingdom has not yet come. When I know sin, I realize that the kingdom has not yet come. When I am sin, definitely I know that the kingdom has yet to come.
But the kingdom has been proclaimed. I’ve heard it! Sometimes I, too, have spoken words that heralded the Word that makes of everything a new creation. It really happens, and the optimist in me believes that it happens with us as often as it happens in spite of us.
Every man, woman, and child who practices social ministry ought to imagine standing between the times: between life as it is and life as they believe it will be. We begin where life is as it is, and we move toward life as it will be, and those in the Church are at the boundary of time present and time future. Or, picture another image for the Church: an isthmus. The Church is the land bridge between two great continents, the present world and the new creation. All of humanity from all time has been on a great migration from the first creation to the final creation, and it is our generation’s turn to cross from one to the other, guided safely over via the isthmus.
What does this have to do with the shelter?
I experienced two moments on the boundary of time, or along the narrow land bridge, on Friday. First, during Bible study, a guest (let me call him Deacon Jones) who joined us for the first time used the hour to offer his own catalog of Augustinian confessions. I knew Deacon Jones nominally before this; I knew only that he was one of the most well-mannered gentlemen I’ve met in the shelter. After hearing Jesus’ teaching about repentance in Luke 13:1-9, he testified both to the wretchedness of his circumstances and the glory of God transfiguring him. It is easier to believe we are simul justus et peccator after hearing Deacon Jones speaking gently but intensely about the misery and mercy of homelessness: the sleeplessness, the hunger, the cold, “snapping” on the streets, being held at knifepoint; yet also praising God for surviving another day on the streets, finding plenty in spite of sinful scarcity, and stepping out on faith to break up lethal fights. His witness shames me into silence. Have I forgotten the meaning of penitence? When a truly impoverished person testifies, you get the impression that none but the poor are genuinely remorseful about failing to pray to God or read the Bible. Trust that impression. His kind of faith sharing does not happen all the time, so you must be ready to listen. It was all I could dare to do. All mortal flesh must keep silence in the presence of Christ and his saints. Deacon Jones was a saint in that hour. Looking back on that morning, I’ve concluded that it is a good thing to study the written Word, but it is a far better thing to study the man or woman who becomes a talking book, a living Word.
Second, the transgender student Mallory fell down, but she rose again. She called me early in the afternoon to apologize for deciding to quit our weekly GED tutorials, offering that her life was complicated, and she needed time to sort it out. However, less than half an hour later, she called back and changed her mind: she wanted to continue, after all. That afternoon was the most productive of all our tutorials. She was getting the hang of reading, comparing, and adding decimals despite no prior experience with anything but whole numbers! So delighted was Mallory by her accomplishment that her melancholy had all but disappeared by the end of the afternoon. I had never seen her so proud of herself! And it made me regret having to tell her I could not attend her graduation from the Moving Ahead Program on March 16 because I will be in Washington. But I know she will be waiting for me when I return: we have to work on reading comprehension and writing skills. She insisted on it.
We’ve come too far to turn back. We must go forward. The kingdom is not yet here, but it is on its way, and it graces every dream Deacon Jones, Mallory, and I have.
Boylston Street Letter #7
Continuing backtracking ... see Boylston Street Letter #4.
The week of Feb. 26-March 2, 2007
The faith sharing and Bible study group meetings have been slimly attended the last few weeks. If not for the pastoral intern from Harvard Divinity School, there would have been no Bible study on the 23rd. This past Friday one guest joined the Harvard intern and me, which was a blessing, but this guest proceeded to monopolize the discussion (unknowingly). He does brilliant exegesis; however, his tendency to read all of the Hebrew Bible and the Gospels through the lens of the book of Revelation, combined with his inability to yield to others in the group, made for a stifling and unspiritual experience on Friday. This is ironic, given this guest’s repeated affirmations of the presence of the Holy Spirit in his life! I cannot speak for the Harvard intern, but I was relieved when our hour together was over: I, for one, no longer felt suffocated.
Strange that I should have wished for this Scripture savant to be quiet, isn’t it? He could speak with authority about the Bible, yet it did not feel like he was sharing with us … it felt more like he was displaying the most precious jewels of his erudition. Impressive? Without a doubt. Inspiring? Not at all, which leads me to wonder whether his is genuine authority. He could communicate conviction, but he could not communicate faith. If I were not already a Christian, I would not have tolerated his holding forth, and I sure would not have been moved toward belief by this guest’s exposition of Scripture.
This reminds me of what another guest, a keen observer of public affairs, told me earlier that morning: for the last 40 years, progressives have been the best recruiters for the far right, because the vehemence with which they promote their generally sensible causes scares away many sympathetic citizens. Progressive politics puts off the people who can and ought to be considered part of the “grass roots” but who are consistently talked down to or chastised or ignored entirely. I must confess that it discouraged me to hear him say that, and I countered him with this question: what about the need to speak a prophetic word for the common good, disturbing as it may be? He did not reply directly to this question, but he stated in words similar to mine that institutions which claim to promote the common good must aim at putting power to work instead of preserving their own power. In other words, if the institutions are not prophetic, the prophetic words of those serving in those institutions will come to naught, especially the words of the zealots.
How I wish to teach as one having authority, and not as the scribes! How difficult it seems some days to know just how to speak radically, lovingly, and constructively! You want God’s word and will to be accepted, but you know the sacred history of the law and the prophets tells you otherwise. The Christ-event assures you God’s word and will cannot fail to be fulfilled, and this I believe. Yet the silence and the violence….
The week of Feb. 26-March 2, 2007
The faith sharing and Bible study group meetings have been slimly attended the last few weeks. If not for the pastoral intern from Harvard Divinity School, there would have been no Bible study on the 23rd. This past Friday one guest joined the Harvard intern and me, which was a blessing, but this guest proceeded to monopolize the discussion (unknowingly). He does brilliant exegesis; however, his tendency to read all of the Hebrew Bible and the Gospels through the lens of the book of Revelation, combined with his inability to yield to others in the group, made for a stifling and unspiritual experience on Friday. This is ironic, given this guest’s repeated affirmations of the presence of the Holy Spirit in his life! I cannot speak for the Harvard intern, but I was relieved when our hour together was over: I, for one, no longer felt suffocated.
Strange that I should have wished for this Scripture savant to be quiet, isn’t it? He could speak with authority about the Bible, yet it did not feel like he was sharing with us … it felt more like he was displaying the most precious jewels of his erudition. Impressive? Without a doubt. Inspiring? Not at all, which leads me to wonder whether his is genuine authority. He could communicate conviction, but he could not communicate faith. If I were not already a Christian, I would not have tolerated his holding forth, and I sure would not have been moved toward belief by this guest’s exposition of Scripture.
This reminds me of what another guest, a keen observer of public affairs, told me earlier that morning: for the last 40 years, progressives have been the best recruiters for the far right, because the vehemence with which they promote their generally sensible causes scares away many sympathetic citizens. Progressive politics puts off the people who can and ought to be considered part of the “grass roots” but who are consistently talked down to or chastised or ignored entirely. I must confess that it discouraged me to hear him say that, and I countered him with this question: what about the need to speak a prophetic word for the common good, disturbing as it may be? He did not reply directly to this question, but he stated in words similar to mine that institutions which claim to promote the common good must aim at putting power to work instead of preserving their own power. In other words, if the institutions are not prophetic, the prophetic words of those serving in those institutions will come to naught, especially the words of the zealots.
How I wish to teach as one having authority, and not as the scribes! How difficult it seems some days to know just how to speak radically, lovingly, and constructively! You want God’s word and will to be accepted, but you know the sacred history of the law and the prophets tells you otherwise. The Christ-event assures you God’s word and will cannot fail to be fulfilled, and this I believe. Yet the silence and the violence….
Boylston Street Letter #6
Continuing backtracking ... see Boylston Street Letter #4.
The week of Feb. 19-23, 2007
Some days at the shelter it happens that you have to minister to the masses, leaving no time for one-to-one encounters with those who need your help or those who may be in a position to help you in your hour of need. Lately I have regretted being in a space where it has not been possible to have what I consider to be pastoral conversations. But upon further reflection what I think I mean is that I would like to have some more spiritual encounters and some more spirit-building conversations before this ministry is concluded. May the disciplines of the Lenten season sharpen my senses so that I might attend to my duties at the shelter with renewed awareness of the opportunities for a meeting with the image of Christ in any face, fair or homely. These moments are nearer than we think. On Friday there came two moments like this.
For the first time, none of the guests came to our hour of faith sharing and Bible study. It may have been a fluke that all the regulars (I use that word loosely) were not to be found around the atrium or the day center. Or if they were present on other floors of the building, they could not be bothered to return to the day center. Certainly it was no help that the elevators to the mezzanine were once again out of order, once more because of a fire in the trash room on one of the top floors. Perhaps it is again time to spread the news about this group by word of mouth. Whatever the reasons for guests’ absence, not all was lost. Another pastoral intern from Harvard Divinity School, who has platooned with me at the hospitality desk on Fridays, joined me for the hour of prayer and reflection and discussion. We lifted up in prayer the men and women who have attended our meetings before and hoped that good things were preventing them from attending, such as new employment, educational opportunities, or even new housing. My partner from Harvard is fresh-faced, good-natured, and far more imperturbable than me in the setting in which we minister. He arrived at St. Francis House last year in mid-autumn, and his duties have largely overlapped mine. It may surprise you to hear me confess that, at first, I felt like he was encroaching upon my turf! How territorial! How ridiculous! But since then I have been humbled by his gracious affability, and now I readily seek his presence at the Bible study. By his participation Friday, we were able to keep this chain of weekly gatherings in Christ’s name unbroken. God bless him for that.
God also bless Mallory and me as we struggle together through our Friday afternoon math tutorials. Again she was feeling less than her best, coughing and hacking out a chest cold. She arrived late and in a difficult mood, haggling with several telephone operators and physicians’ secretaries to renew some vital prescription medication in vain. In spite of Mallory’s churlish feelings, we slogged through two hours of word problems and broke through the darkness into some place of light. I can remember the exact moment: we were practicing the fifth in a series of arithmetic word problems, I was half-asleep on my feet, and Mallory in her melancholy was insisting that there was not enough information in the question to make a solution possible. I told her to think again and look carefully. There was a minute of silence, then, in a voice more buoyant than I had yet heard that afternoon, she announced that she had figured out what to do. She was pleased to tell me that it took her a little while longer to work it out, but she discovered what she needed to do. The last fifteen minutes of our tutorial were the happiest and most productive of them all. Whether Mallory continues with this Friday afternoon remediation has yet to be determined because her life is very much touch and go, not least because she is a transgender person. I hope we may keep going forward, if only for the fact that I felt a precious lightness of being at that moment when she understood what the problem was and how to solve it. She felt so proud of herself, and it made me care for her, genuinely care for her, for the first time. She made a breakthrough, but so did I.
The week of Feb. 19-23, 2007
Some days at the shelter it happens that you have to minister to the masses, leaving no time for one-to-one encounters with those who need your help or those who may be in a position to help you in your hour of need. Lately I have regretted being in a space where it has not been possible to have what I consider to be pastoral conversations. But upon further reflection what I think I mean is that I would like to have some more spiritual encounters and some more spirit-building conversations before this ministry is concluded. May the disciplines of the Lenten season sharpen my senses so that I might attend to my duties at the shelter with renewed awareness of the opportunities for a meeting with the image of Christ in any face, fair or homely. These moments are nearer than we think. On Friday there came two moments like this.
For the first time, none of the guests came to our hour of faith sharing and Bible study. It may have been a fluke that all the regulars (I use that word loosely) were not to be found around the atrium or the day center. Or if they were present on other floors of the building, they could not be bothered to return to the day center. Certainly it was no help that the elevators to the mezzanine were once again out of order, once more because of a fire in the trash room on one of the top floors. Perhaps it is again time to spread the news about this group by word of mouth. Whatever the reasons for guests’ absence, not all was lost. Another pastoral intern from Harvard Divinity School, who has platooned with me at the hospitality desk on Fridays, joined me for the hour of prayer and reflection and discussion. We lifted up in prayer the men and women who have attended our meetings before and hoped that good things were preventing them from attending, such as new employment, educational opportunities, or even new housing. My partner from Harvard is fresh-faced, good-natured, and far more imperturbable than me in the setting in which we minister. He arrived at St. Francis House last year in mid-autumn, and his duties have largely overlapped mine. It may surprise you to hear me confess that, at first, I felt like he was encroaching upon my turf! How territorial! How ridiculous! But since then I have been humbled by his gracious affability, and now I readily seek his presence at the Bible study. By his participation Friday, we were able to keep this chain of weekly gatherings in Christ’s name unbroken. God bless him for that.
God also bless Mallory and me as we struggle together through our Friday afternoon math tutorials. Again she was feeling less than her best, coughing and hacking out a chest cold. She arrived late and in a difficult mood, haggling with several telephone operators and physicians’ secretaries to renew some vital prescription medication in vain. In spite of Mallory’s churlish feelings, we slogged through two hours of word problems and broke through the darkness into some place of light. I can remember the exact moment: we were practicing the fifth in a series of arithmetic word problems, I was half-asleep on my feet, and Mallory in her melancholy was insisting that there was not enough information in the question to make a solution possible. I told her to think again and look carefully. There was a minute of silence, then, in a voice more buoyant than I had yet heard that afternoon, she announced that she had figured out what to do. She was pleased to tell me that it took her a little while longer to work it out, but she discovered what she needed to do. The last fifteen minutes of our tutorial were the happiest and most productive of them all. Whether Mallory continues with this Friday afternoon remediation has yet to be determined because her life is very much touch and go, not least because she is a transgender person. I hope we may keep going forward, if only for the fact that I felt a precious lightness of being at that moment when she understood what the problem was and how to solve it. She felt so proud of herself, and it made me care for her, genuinely care for her, for the first time. She made a breakthrough, but so did I.
Boylston Street Letter #5
Continuing backtracking ... see Boylston Street Letter #4.
The week of Feb. 12-16, 2007
The Moving Ahead Program celebrated the graduation of its 69th class on Friday, and I attended the ceremony at the Boston Center for Adult Education on 5 Commonwealth Ave. I walked there from the shelter with Mallory, the transgender student whom I was supposed to tutor that afternoon. We decided it would be a better use of our time to cheer on the men and women who were stepping out of the shadows of shame, disenfranchisement, and hopelessness into new lives.
As usual, the testimonies from the graduates were moving and steeped in gratitude. Several staff members and current MAP students paid tribute to these persevering graduates, and even Mallory stepped forward to give thanks for their example. A small but sumptuously catered reception followed, the kind of banquet that Jesus saw fit to use as a metaphor for the reign of God in heaven and earth.
Here, at these graduations, you see hope fulfilled. However, I felt strangely detached from the proceedings. Maybe it’s because I work at the periphery of this program and have not been touched by these children of God. Maybe it’s because I was thinking about school, my classes, and my love life. Maybe it’s because I felt sleepy.
Maybe it’s because while these men and women are moving ahead, I’m also moving on.
First of all, I am eager to plan a course of study for a Ph.D. or Th.D. in theology. Second of all, the novelty of ministering to homeless persons passed a while ago; and, in recent days, so has the feeling of guilt for not doing enough to lighten the lives of the least of Jesus’ brothers and sisters. The welfare of the homeless and the heartbroken does not depend on me. I have allowed myself to “let go and let God.” However, sanguinity poses its own risks. If anything, I am concerned that the familiarity of the shelter will breed complacency and inattentive behavior. Already there are indications of obliviousness in my morning shift. Sometimes my nose is stuck in a newspaper while guests wait at the hospitality desk for their daily bread; sometimes I linger in the photo room, where we produce guest identification cards, to check e-mail. One more confession: While I was running an errand for the shelter last Monday morning, receiving and delivering a donation of soaps, shampoos, and moisturizers I had secured for the shower room and clothing distribution, I was thinking about how much of a relief it was not to have to staff the hospitality desk during the peak hour of craziness.
“Only, we were to be mindful of the poor, which is the very thing I was eager to do.” When this internship started, I could not think of any better way to use my time on Mondays and Fridays. Now I can think half a dozen things that are good and needful and that have little to do with the poor, at least those of St. Francis House. (I decided to take President’s Day off.) Is it God’s will leading mine, or merely my own will?
The week of Feb. 12-16, 2007
The Moving Ahead Program celebrated the graduation of its 69th class on Friday, and I attended the ceremony at the Boston Center for Adult Education on 5 Commonwealth Ave. I walked there from the shelter with Mallory, the transgender student whom I was supposed to tutor that afternoon. We decided it would be a better use of our time to cheer on the men and women who were stepping out of the shadows of shame, disenfranchisement, and hopelessness into new lives.
As usual, the testimonies from the graduates were moving and steeped in gratitude. Several staff members and current MAP students paid tribute to these persevering graduates, and even Mallory stepped forward to give thanks for their example. A small but sumptuously catered reception followed, the kind of banquet that Jesus saw fit to use as a metaphor for the reign of God in heaven and earth.
Here, at these graduations, you see hope fulfilled. However, I felt strangely detached from the proceedings. Maybe it’s because I work at the periphery of this program and have not been touched by these children of God. Maybe it’s because I was thinking about school, my classes, and my love life. Maybe it’s because I felt sleepy.
Maybe it’s because while these men and women are moving ahead, I’m also moving on.
First of all, I am eager to plan a course of study for a Ph.D. or Th.D. in theology. Second of all, the novelty of ministering to homeless persons passed a while ago; and, in recent days, so has the feeling of guilt for not doing enough to lighten the lives of the least of Jesus’ brothers and sisters. The welfare of the homeless and the heartbroken does not depend on me. I have allowed myself to “let go and let God.” However, sanguinity poses its own risks. If anything, I am concerned that the familiarity of the shelter will breed complacency and inattentive behavior. Already there are indications of obliviousness in my morning shift. Sometimes my nose is stuck in a newspaper while guests wait at the hospitality desk for their daily bread; sometimes I linger in the photo room, where we produce guest identification cards, to check e-mail. One more confession: While I was running an errand for the shelter last Monday morning, receiving and delivering a donation of soaps, shampoos, and moisturizers I had secured for the shower room and clothing distribution, I was thinking about how much of a relief it was not to have to staff the hospitality desk during the peak hour of craziness.
“Only, we were to be mindful of the poor, which is the very thing I was eager to do.” When this internship started, I could not think of any better way to use my time on Mondays and Fridays. Now I can think half a dozen things that are good and needful and that have little to do with the poor, at least those of St. Francis House. (I decided to take President’s Day off.) Is it God’s will leading mine, or merely my own will?
Boylston Street Letter #4
While living simply and living well the last five weeks, I have been derelict in my blogging duties. Let me start backtracking, with correspondence from my ministry to the homeless at St. Francis House.
The week of Feb. 5-9, 2007
Whenever the weather takes a sharp turn for the colder, I know I’m about to take ill. Moreover, my immunity always seems to be its lowest at exactly this time of the season: I’ve caught more colds in the second week of February than at any other time of the year. Wednesday evening I came down with a sore throat and general fatigue, and I decided not to risk making my condition worse by working at the shelter Friday.
No surprise there. However, this was the first time I begged off my duties at St. Francis House, and it did surprise me to discover how many people were going to be affected by my absence. There was the day center supervisor, who was now going to be one hand short at the hospitality desk; Mallory, the transgender student in the Moving Ahead Program, whom I had just begun to tutor for the GED exam, plus two others I was about to begin tutoring Friday; the MAP instructor who referred these students to me; Brother Dan, who sets aside time every Friday afternoon for a debriefing; and Professor Knust, who was scheduled to visit the day center at its most active. I placed five separate phone calls on Thursday morning to excuse myself to make sure I left no one in the lurch.
But there’s one group of people I couldn’t telephone: our guests, especially those who attend the Friday faith sharing and Bible study hour. How do you suppose they felt? Or how about those guests who take comfort knowing that on Friday morning they’ll see that familiar furry face ready to hand out razors for their prickly faces? I placed my sick calls out of courtesy and respect for those who rely on me; if only I could have extended the same direct courtesy and respect to the guests. When you’re down and out, you’re out of sight and mind.
That Friday I took time to recuperate and finished reading a textbook on pastoral care and counseling. The author, who likened pastoral caregivers to gardeners cultivating the “ground” of a faith community, emphasized the importance of self-care for caregivers, lest they suffer burnout. I do not take issue with the author on this point, but I note with mild regret that it was disarmingly easy to decide to take the day off. Moreover, I do not trust the feeling of relief that swept over me Thursday morning, which could be worded thus: “Thank God I don’t have deal with the homeless today.” Seriously, I was glad the shelter’s problems were not to be my problems that day.
Is it okay to feel like that? Do you call that good pastoral self-care? I could have reported to the shelter. I’m not burned out. I didn’t feel that bad Friday morning, certainly not much worse than most working-class people who don’t have the luxury of taking sick days. In short, I question the sincerity of my motive and the purity of my intent.
I could end with one of any number of Gospel proof-texts to vindicate my skepticism or chastise my self-loathing, but that won’t do. Better to remember that Monday is another day. The poor will still be there, and they will neither condemn nor praise us. I pray Jesus Christ will still be with us.
The week of Feb. 5-9, 2007
Whenever the weather takes a sharp turn for the colder, I know I’m about to take ill. Moreover, my immunity always seems to be its lowest at exactly this time of the season: I’ve caught more colds in the second week of February than at any other time of the year. Wednesday evening I came down with a sore throat and general fatigue, and I decided not to risk making my condition worse by working at the shelter Friday.
No surprise there. However, this was the first time I begged off my duties at St. Francis House, and it did surprise me to discover how many people were going to be affected by my absence. There was the day center supervisor, who was now going to be one hand short at the hospitality desk; Mallory, the transgender student in the Moving Ahead Program, whom I had just begun to tutor for the GED exam, plus two others I was about to begin tutoring Friday; the MAP instructor who referred these students to me; Brother Dan, who sets aside time every Friday afternoon for a debriefing; and Professor Knust, who was scheduled to visit the day center at its most active. I placed five separate phone calls on Thursday morning to excuse myself to make sure I left no one in the lurch.
But there’s one group of people I couldn’t telephone: our guests, especially those who attend the Friday faith sharing and Bible study hour. How do you suppose they felt? Or how about those guests who take comfort knowing that on Friday morning they’ll see that familiar furry face ready to hand out razors for their prickly faces? I placed my sick calls out of courtesy and respect for those who rely on me; if only I could have extended the same direct courtesy and respect to the guests. When you’re down and out, you’re out of sight and mind.
That Friday I took time to recuperate and finished reading a textbook on pastoral care and counseling. The author, who likened pastoral caregivers to gardeners cultivating the “ground” of a faith community, emphasized the importance of self-care for caregivers, lest they suffer burnout. I do not take issue with the author on this point, but I note with mild regret that it was disarmingly easy to decide to take the day off. Moreover, I do not trust the feeling of relief that swept over me Thursday morning, which could be worded thus: “Thank God I don’t have deal with the homeless today.” Seriously, I was glad the shelter’s problems were not to be my problems that day.
Is it okay to feel like that? Do you call that good pastoral self-care? I could have reported to the shelter. I’m not burned out. I didn’t feel that bad Friday morning, certainly not much worse than most working-class people who don’t have the luxury of taking sick days. In short, I question the sincerity of my motive and the purity of my intent.
I could end with one of any number of Gospel proof-texts to vindicate my skepticism or chastise my self-loathing, but that won’t do. Better to remember that Monday is another day. The poor will still be there, and they will neither condemn nor praise us. I pray Jesus Christ will still be with us.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Between Boston and Baghdad
Last week my mind trained on the war in Iraq more than it did on the homeless in Boston. On Friday I left St. Francis House early in the afternoon in order to finish packing for the journey to Washington and the massive antiwar demonstration on the National Mall. The next thirty-six hours were some of the happiest I experienced this year. I yelled myself half-hoarse that warm, sunny Saturday, passing by the halls of power, demanding that God’s will to peace be done. The road trip proved just as enjoyable as the march, as the conversation kept running mile after mile.
Yet even in the midst of the jubilant journey and peaceful procession, I could recall what brought me there. My mind was on the war precisely because of the homeless. With the billions of dollars we have sunk into remaking Iraq in our own image, we could have been investing in urban renewal, including job training and housing development, and counseling services—mental health, legal, and financial—to rebuild the lives of our homeless and the communities in which they wander. Harnessing the talent of our young, strong men and women and the treasure of our most generous fellow citizens, we could have rebuilt New Orleans and all the communities ravaged by Hurricane Katrina and returned hundreds of thousands of displaced brothers and sisters to their rightful homes. Yet what have we done all this time? We have made war, begetting more wars. We have destroyed lives, thereby destroying the better parts of our own lives. We have caused uncounted numbers of Iraqi men, women, and children to flee their cities and towns, with refuge in Europe or the United States their last hope. Homelessness … that is what we have “created” in Iraq.
During the march I wore the rugged metal cross given to all the homeless men and women who attend Common Cathedral, the street church led by Ecclesia Ministries. The word “Ecclesia” is engraved into the curvature of the cross. It reminds me that I am the member of a spiritual assembly whose unity transcends time and space in Christ. How fitting, on that mild winter day in Washington, to bear witness to the worldwide assembly of displaced persons within one of the largest assemblies I’ve joined, itself the product of myriad pilgrimages. All of us felt called to disperse from our particular communities to remember the living and the dead dispersed from theirs. The homeless soldiers, unable to return because of redeployment … the homeless Iraqis, unable to return to their native soil because of mass violence … the homeless in America, unable to return to the places once theirs because of the blind negligence of their brothers and sisters.
This war hurts all the homeless. For every day we let the strife fester, we do violence to the least among us here and abroad, and the vain cause for which we fruitlessly fight undermines the genuinely righteous causes for which we must vigorously fight. And all the while, God watches and hides.
Yet even in the midst of the jubilant journey and peaceful procession, I could recall what brought me there. My mind was on the war precisely because of the homeless. With the billions of dollars we have sunk into remaking Iraq in our own image, we could have been investing in urban renewal, including job training and housing development, and counseling services—mental health, legal, and financial—to rebuild the lives of our homeless and the communities in which they wander. Harnessing the talent of our young, strong men and women and the treasure of our most generous fellow citizens, we could have rebuilt New Orleans and all the communities ravaged by Hurricane Katrina and returned hundreds of thousands of displaced brothers and sisters to their rightful homes. Yet what have we done all this time? We have made war, begetting more wars. We have destroyed lives, thereby destroying the better parts of our own lives. We have caused uncounted numbers of Iraqi men, women, and children to flee their cities and towns, with refuge in Europe or the United States their last hope. Homelessness … that is what we have “created” in Iraq.
During the march I wore the rugged metal cross given to all the homeless men and women who attend Common Cathedral, the street church led by Ecclesia Ministries. The word “Ecclesia” is engraved into the curvature of the cross. It reminds me that I am the member of a spiritual assembly whose unity transcends time and space in Christ. How fitting, on that mild winter day in Washington, to bear witness to the worldwide assembly of displaced persons within one of the largest assemblies I’ve joined, itself the product of myriad pilgrimages. All of us felt called to disperse from our particular communities to remember the living and the dead dispersed from theirs. The homeless soldiers, unable to return because of redeployment … the homeless Iraqis, unable to return to their native soil because of mass violence … the homeless in America, unable to return to the places once theirs because of the blind negligence of their brothers and sisters.
This war hurts all the homeless. For every day we let the strife fester, we do violence to the least among us here and abroad, and the vain cause for which we fruitlessly fight undermines the genuinely righteous causes for which we must vigorously fight. And all the while, God watches and hides.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Letter From Boylston Street #2
One in an occasional 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).
From an incident on Friday morning:
“I came up here for an emergency clothing ticket.”
“I’m sorry. We don’t have any emergency clothing here in the day center.”
“But they told me I can get an emergency clothing ticket in the day center.”
“The only way we give out clothing is by the lottery downstairs every morning at 9 o’clock.”
“I need some emergency clothing, do you hear what I am saying?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry, but I don’t have any clothing to give you.”
“They said I can get some emergency clothing up here. Now I need some clothes!”
“I know, but I said we don’t have any clothing here for you. I’m sorry.”
“I need some fucking clothing. They said I can get some emergency clothing. Give me some fucking clothing!”
“If I had the clothing, I would give it to you. We don’t have any clothing here.”
“I need some fucking clothing! Now give me some clothing!”
“I want to give you some clothing. But we don’t have any clothing. There’s nothing else I can do for you.”
“They told me to come up here for the emergency clothing!”
“I can’t give you any clothing.”
This went on, back and forth, between me and a taller, stronger guest, and I began to worry for my safety, as I was all alone behind the hospitality desk (which should never be the case). Finally, I called for one of the staff, who was just as tall and strong as this aggrieved guest, and he convinced the guest that I was telling the truth. I should have said right at the start that the security desk in the lobby gave our guest the wrong information.
This is not the first time guests have been waylaid by misinformation. Now, the security desk knows that there is no emergency clothing available in the day center. All clothing is distributed on the second floor, above the mezzanine. There hasn’t been any emergency clothing distribution in the day center as long as I have been volunteering. Since the introduction of the clothing lottery, we have also stopped giving out emergency clothing tickets. Surely this intelligence has filtered down to security, because they supervise the daily clothing lottery! So why do some staff insist on sending guests to the mezzanine, where they are bound to be frustrated?
Ignorance itself isn’t sin, but willful ignorance is despicable, especially when it frustrates faith, hope, and charity. I refer to ignorance of the reality of the situation as well as ignorance of the possible consequences of our behavior. What angers homeless persons the most is the kind of negligence that opens up, as a yawning void, on account of one person’s or one group’s calculated avoidance of the other person’s experience of the common situation. This anger spilled over several times during worship at Common Cathedral today, as several homeless disrupted intercessions, the Eucharist, and concluding prayers with shouting and infighting. One homeless person, Ken, stepped forward and said he had been barred from St. Francis House and Pine Street Inn, an overnight shelter, for preaching. Invoking God, he promised that things are going to get bad at these places.
When security continues to send our guests to floors where their needs cannot be met; when volunteers do not have the right answers or are put into situations where no answers they can give are the right answers; when guests rage against yet another slap to their dignity, everybody loses. All are caught in sin.
***
A windy winter has arrived at last, and I have been worrying about the homeless, knowing that some men and women are going to die on the benches of Boston Common this month or the next. Earlier in the week a friend of mine called an ambulance for a hypothermic homeless person squatting in Copley Square. She had bought a coffee for him, only to find that he was too cold and too weak to raise the cup to his lips. On Saturday I met Steve, who was squatting in the subway station at Hynes Convention Center, and he looked much worse than he did several months ago. He had been beaten up, he was fitted in a neck brace, and he was starving. His speech was badly slurred. I wanted to find out what happened to him. All he kept asking was, “I’m hungry. Can you help me out?” I brought him some rice, vegetables and chicken from a Korean-Japanese buffet down the road. “Are you a Christian?” he asked. Pausing for a moment, I said cautiously, “Yes.” “Why do you care for me?” he asked. I said, “You said you were hungry, so I came back to feed you.” In between his falling tears he said to me, “Nobody cares for me. I just need somebody to love me.” We prayed together, and he asked me to give him a kiss. I brushed away the hair from his forehead and gave him a kiss of peace. We embraced. He said Jesus Christ had brought me to him and the Holy Spirit was here. I had no words.
Lord, correct our ignorance. Lord, defeat our negligence. Help us see your face and not be surprised by its pallor or its ugliness. Keep us from recoiling at first from the fury etched into the lines of your mouth and forehead. Let us not look away if we see you wailing for your welfare. We dare not turn away, even if your image appears in a form so abused that the child of God we find curses us. We do not turn away, but we turn back because we know it is we who have abused these children of God. Ours is the sin, the slavery, and the suffering; yours is the kin(g)dom, the power, and the glory. Set us free from the snares we have laid.
From an incident on Friday morning:
“I came up here for an emergency clothing ticket.”
“I’m sorry. We don’t have any emergency clothing here in the day center.”
“But they told me I can get an emergency clothing ticket in the day center.”
“The only way we give out clothing is by the lottery downstairs every morning at 9 o’clock.”
“I need some emergency clothing, do you hear what I am saying?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry, but I don’t have any clothing to give you.”
“They said I can get some emergency clothing up here. Now I need some clothes!”
“I know, but I said we don’t have any clothing here for you. I’m sorry.”
“I need some fucking clothing. They said I can get some emergency clothing. Give me some fucking clothing!”
“If I had the clothing, I would give it to you. We don’t have any clothing here.”
“I need some fucking clothing! Now give me some clothing!”
“I want to give you some clothing. But we don’t have any clothing. There’s nothing else I can do for you.”
“They told me to come up here for the emergency clothing!”
“I can’t give you any clothing.”
This went on, back and forth, between me and a taller, stronger guest, and I began to worry for my safety, as I was all alone behind the hospitality desk (which should never be the case). Finally, I called for one of the staff, who was just as tall and strong as this aggrieved guest, and he convinced the guest that I was telling the truth. I should have said right at the start that the security desk in the lobby gave our guest the wrong information.
This is not the first time guests have been waylaid by misinformation. Now, the security desk knows that there is no emergency clothing available in the day center. All clothing is distributed on the second floor, above the mezzanine. There hasn’t been any emergency clothing distribution in the day center as long as I have been volunteering. Since the introduction of the clothing lottery, we have also stopped giving out emergency clothing tickets. Surely this intelligence has filtered down to security, because they supervise the daily clothing lottery! So why do some staff insist on sending guests to the mezzanine, where they are bound to be frustrated?
Ignorance itself isn’t sin, but willful ignorance is despicable, especially when it frustrates faith, hope, and charity. I refer to ignorance of the reality of the situation as well as ignorance of the possible consequences of our behavior. What angers homeless persons the most is the kind of negligence that opens up, as a yawning void, on account of one person’s or one group’s calculated avoidance of the other person’s experience of the common situation. This anger spilled over several times during worship at Common Cathedral today, as several homeless disrupted intercessions, the Eucharist, and concluding prayers with shouting and infighting. One homeless person, Ken, stepped forward and said he had been barred from St. Francis House and Pine Street Inn, an overnight shelter, for preaching. Invoking God, he promised that things are going to get bad at these places.
When security continues to send our guests to floors where their needs cannot be met; when volunteers do not have the right answers or are put into situations where no answers they can give are the right answers; when guests rage against yet another slap to their dignity, everybody loses. All are caught in sin.
***
A windy winter has arrived at last, and I have been worrying about the homeless, knowing that some men and women are going to die on the benches of Boston Common this month or the next. Earlier in the week a friend of mine called an ambulance for a hypothermic homeless person squatting in Copley Square. She had bought a coffee for him, only to find that he was too cold and too weak to raise the cup to his lips. On Saturday I met Steve, who was squatting in the subway station at Hynes Convention Center, and he looked much worse than he did several months ago. He had been beaten up, he was fitted in a neck brace, and he was starving. His speech was badly slurred. I wanted to find out what happened to him. All he kept asking was, “I’m hungry. Can you help me out?” I brought him some rice, vegetables and chicken from a Korean-Japanese buffet down the road. “Are you a Christian?” he asked. Pausing for a moment, I said cautiously, “Yes.” “Why do you care for me?” he asked. I said, “You said you were hungry, so I came back to feed you.” In between his falling tears he said to me, “Nobody cares for me. I just need somebody to love me.” We prayed together, and he asked me to give him a kiss. I brushed away the hair from his forehead and gave him a kiss of peace. We embraced. He said Jesus Christ had brought me to him and the Holy Spirit was here. I had no words.
Lord, correct our ignorance. Lord, defeat our negligence. Help us see your face and not be surprised by its pallor or its ugliness. Keep us from recoiling at first from the fury etched into the lines of your mouth and forehead. Let us not look away if we see you wailing for your welfare. We dare not turn away, even if your image appears in a form so abused that the child of God we find curses us. We do not turn away, but we turn back because we know it is we who have abused these children of God. Ours is the sin, the slavery, and the suffering; yours is the kin(g)dom, the power, and the glory. Set us free from the snares we have laid.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Prayer From Ecclesia Ministries
Ecclesia Ministries (http://www.ecclesia-ministries.org) is a spiritual community for the men and women who live on the streets of Boston. Common Cathedral, a weekly ecumenical celebration of the Eucharist on Boston Common, is the centerpiece of its mission.
Three times a year, Ecclesia leads an overnight urban outreach program called CityReach. Youth and young adults learn about homelessness from persons who are currently or formerly homeless, provide hospitality through gifts of food and clothing, and engage in street ministry.
The following is a prayer that was written by the CityReach volunteer teams on Oct. 21, 2006, after an afternoon of theological and practical reflection.
Gracious God of charity, loving Creator, our almighty warm embrace and Holy Wisdom,
You open our eyes and minds and hearts. You suffer with us, and you love the unlovable. You fill our needs, as when you took pity on us and performed a miracle of compassion to feed the five thousand. You are our faithful and patient provider.
Renew us and help us to remember your people. Work through us as we continue our service to others. Bring privilege to those who are less privileged. Help us to pray for people who need homes. Protect the vulnerable, and give them hope. Make those who are strong stand up for the weak, and give them courage to welcome the outsider and change unjust systems. Renew our faith so we may embrace other people without judgment.
Build our community, Lord. We need a larger table and more chairs for the heavenly banquet. Make your kingdom come quickly.
We ask all this in the name of Jesus Christ, your Son, homeless in this world, but at home with you and the Holy Spirit, now and forever. Amen.
Three times a year, Ecclesia leads an overnight urban outreach program called CityReach. Youth and young adults learn about homelessness from persons who are currently or formerly homeless, provide hospitality through gifts of food and clothing, and engage in street ministry.
The following is a prayer that was written by the CityReach volunteer teams on Oct. 21, 2006, after an afternoon of theological and practical reflection.
Gracious God of charity, loving Creator, our almighty warm embrace and Holy Wisdom,
You open our eyes and minds and hearts. You suffer with us, and you love the unlovable. You fill our needs, as when you took pity on us and performed a miracle of compassion to feed the five thousand. You are our faithful and patient provider.
Renew us and help us to remember your people. Work through us as we continue our service to others. Bring privilege to those who are less privileged. Help us to pray for people who need homes. Protect the vulnerable, and give them hope. Make those who are strong stand up for the weak, and give them courage to welcome the outsider and change unjust systems. Renew our faith so we may embrace other people without judgment.
Build our community, Lord. We need a larger table and more chairs for the heavenly banquet. Make your kingdom come quickly.
We ask all this in the name of Jesus Christ, your Son, homeless in this world, but at home with you and the Holy Spirit, now and forever. Amen.
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.
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.
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