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.
Monday, March 12, 2007
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.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
A Confession Revisited
Caveat lector: This reflection was written nearly a year ago while I was wallowing in self-absorption. Today I am stuck in the same rut, and having pulled out this reflection, I am dismayed to discover how much of it remains pertinent today. If you are looking for a post slightly less drenched in self-pity, then scroll down to the latest Letter From Boylston Street. Otherwise, read on, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.
***
God is love, and whoever remains in love remains in God and God in him.
1 John 4:16
As each one has received a gift, use it to serve one another as stewards of God’s varied grace.
1 Peter 4:10
The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.
William Butler Yeats, “The Second Coming”
At this time in my faith journey, I face what you might call a little crisis of commitment. With that crisis comes another little crisis, of conviction. Whether one is the cause of the other is uncertain. Figuring out why I ought to do something perplexes me as much as deciding what to do. If I cannot know the why, then there is no what. Without the what, there is not even a question of why. Of course, I am not always in total ignorance of my vocation, though I must admit that total ignorance is more blissful than half-ignorance. Sometimes when I know what to do, the lack of why keeps me from doing it; and often I know why something has to be done, but I do not know what. I have learned how not to be so unhappy about these frustrating situations, but I yearn for the happiness that comes with knowing what to do and why I should do it. As a Catholic Christian, I believe that knowing and loving God in faith is the way to learning what to do and why it should be done. Yet how deep is that love? I do not fear doubt, for doubt must ride with faith, but does my craving for certainty of calling dampen that love? As we take a look at the road behind, the meaning of these crises of commitment and conviction may become clearer to you and me.
Jesus calls men and women to love their neighbors. This is charity, or agape, the proper response by those who know they are loved and have received so many gifts. I have received numerous gifts, and I have been given many talents, but they show little “profit”; my tree bears few fruits. I don’t know what I want to do with my gifts, and I don’t care enough to pray about the matter: I shrug it off. I lack the conviction and passion needed to use my talents. Ironically, I lack agape love because I lack its counterpart, desire, or eros. I have received, but am I really happy to have received? A singer sings for others, but that singer must first be happy to be singing, otherwise no one will draw near to listen. If it doesn’t please a singer to be singing, there will be no listeners; he or she ceases, and no one else can benefit, for there will be no birth of music. Thus agape builds upon eros. The builder who builds or the custodian who cleans up and is happy doing it because he or she loves the gifts of that work is opened up by that happiness to love others for their sake.
I have been an editor and a teacher. I have been a student, an employee, and a volunteer. I have lived up and down the state of New York, and in Baltimore and Boston. With the Capuchin Franciscans I have desired to leave the secular world behind, only to return to it with humility. Faith has taken me to places I never intended to go and works I never intended to do. Still, nearly ten years into this journey, I doubt whether I have truly loved or appreciate that I have been loved. Was I a loving editor; did I love teaching? Did I love in Baltimore, or did I ever love New York? Am I aware of God’s love (and yours) in Boston? I fear I seek God without passing on the gifts of God. I seek to share the gifts of love without any real sense of joy or happiness at having been so blessed by them. Eros is separated from the agape that perfects it; agape is not in touch with the eros that seeks it; and each is diminished. The result of this split is a paralysis of action. Acedia, begone!
When Jesus calls men and women to love their neighbors, they must love them as they love themselves. Knowing what personal state of life I should pursue would help me better fulfill the latter part of Jesus’ invitation. I am a virgin considering a calling to the celibate life, although I do not seek ordination in the Catholic Church. I believe God calls many people to celibacy, but most of them are not willing to accept this. Count me among them. Strongly do I believe I am called to be celibate, and I believe deeply in the goodness of celibacy, but these convictions give me no happiness. You see, I am not a virgin by choice, but of necessity, because I have never had a girlfriend or been in a long-term relationship. How am I to know whether celibacy is right for me without an experience of the emotional intimacy of a mutually exclusive interpersonal relationship? I worry that whatever state I ought to be in, I am missing my calling because of my lack of social skills. I recognize that I am not casual enough to be able to gain the confidence of a few beloved friends (especially female), nor am I intimate enough to retain deep, long-lasting relationships with them. Marriage looks like an impossibility, but I cannot confirm celibacy, and I doubt whether I could live up to either vocation. I’m a dissatisfied single.
Surely this attitude toward relationships is connected to my eros-agape deficit. The psychoanalyst Erich Fromm said men and women work harder at being lovable then at loving. Indeed, they pursue the former with a passionate intensity. I have been led by this temptation into many sins, for I have made an idol of my desire to be loved. I do not honor God when I pray with prayers that pretend to say “I love you” when they really mean “love ME.” Selfishly do I expect people to confide in me, sharing stories, sorrows, fears, and hopes. Wouldn’t it be nice to be sought after as Jesus was sought, with others reaching for the hem of your garment? This is but a daydream, because I do precious little to present myself as one approachable like Jesus. Without having demonstrated loving, who will come to you to be loved? Not knowing what deep happiness and unspeakable joy feel like, I crave them all the more, but only for myself. Eros turns me inward upon myself, and agape is left unpracticed, atrophied. Celibacy becomes a sentence, and I sit alone woefully ruing my lack of experience in human relationships.
Life would be so much simpler if someone with unquestionable authority would just tell me what to do. Even without the why, I would do it. However, life—and, more to the point, life’s creator—does not work that way. God made us to be free, questing spirits and gave us a deep longing for love through which we return to God. Jesus’ call for us to love one another is a commandment to end all commandments, because love, to be love, cannot be commanded at all. Love is an act of freedom. To have freedom is to make your own choice, and to have a questing spirit is to have questions that turn every certainty into doubt. I believe in a supreme authority, but it is not of this world, which is limited and changeable, and so while this authority gives the gift of love, it cannot give to me what I believe belongs only to itself—absolute certainty of commitment and conviction.
Feb. 12, 2006
***
To the above observation I would note that while the issues of agape-eros and relationships remain alive and burning, the crises of commitment and conviction have subsided a little. Not that I have resolved them entirely, but I feel some light has been shed on the questions of what and why. Ironically, that has led to a new and disturbing question: when. Not just when, but when, if ever. It is a crisis of confirmation, of chronos versus kairos, one felt acutely by many of the older seminarians with whom I study but which also leans heavily on me. When, if ever, will it be my turn to proclaim in word and deed, with unmistakable spiritual power, the coming of the reign of God? When, if ever, will it be my turn to give and receive love in a way that leaves no doubt that God has encountered us and changed us all? Will there ever be a time I share God’s love and mine with a partner? Will the community of the faithful confirm the calls that drive me and all my lonely brothers and sisters to these depths of longing? We wait for the inspired moment: that is, the movement of the fiery Spirit.
***
God is love, and whoever remains in love remains in God and God in him.
1 John 4:16
As each one has received a gift, use it to serve one another as stewards of God’s varied grace.
1 Peter 4:10
The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.
William Butler Yeats, “The Second Coming”
At this time in my faith journey, I face what you might call a little crisis of commitment. With that crisis comes another little crisis, of conviction. Whether one is the cause of the other is uncertain. Figuring out why I ought to do something perplexes me as much as deciding what to do. If I cannot know the why, then there is no what. Without the what, there is not even a question of why. Of course, I am not always in total ignorance of my vocation, though I must admit that total ignorance is more blissful than half-ignorance. Sometimes when I know what to do, the lack of why keeps me from doing it; and often I know why something has to be done, but I do not know what. I have learned how not to be so unhappy about these frustrating situations, but I yearn for the happiness that comes with knowing what to do and why I should do it. As a Catholic Christian, I believe that knowing and loving God in faith is the way to learning what to do and why it should be done. Yet how deep is that love? I do not fear doubt, for doubt must ride with faith, but does my craving for certainty of calling dampen that love? As we take a look at the road behind, the meaning of these crises of commitment and conviction may become clearer to you and me.
Jesus calls men and women to love their neighbors. This is charity, or agape, the proper response by those who know they are loved and have received so many gifts. I have received numerous gifts, and I have been given many talents, but they show little “profit”; my tree bears few fruits. I don’t know what I want to do with my gifts, and I don’t care enough to pray about the matter: I shrug it off. I lack the conviction and passion needed to use my talents. Ironically, I lack agape love because I lack its counterpart, desire, or eros. I have received, but am I really happy to have received? A singer sings for others, but that singer must first be happy to be singing, otherwise no one will draw near to listen. If it doesn’t please a singer to be singing, there will be no listeners; he or she ceases, and no one else can benefit, for there will be no birth of music. Thus agape builds upon eros. The builder who builds or the custodian who cleans up and is happy doing it because he or she loves the gifts of that work is opened up by that happiness to love others for their sake.
I have been an editor and a teacher. I have been a student, an employee, and a volunteer. I have lived up and down the state of New York, and in Baltimore and Boston. With the Capuchin Franciscans I have desired to leave the secular world behind, only to return to it with humility. Faith has taken me to places I never intended to go and works I never intended to do. Still, nearly ten years into this journey, I doubt whether I have truly loved or appreciate that I have been loved. Was I a loving editor; did I love teaching? Did I love in Baltimore, or did I ever love New York? Am I aware of God’s love (and yours) in Boston? I fear I seek God without passing on the gifts of God. I seek to share the gifts of love without any real sense of joy or happiness at having been so blessed by them. Eros is separated from the agape that perfects it; agape is not in touch with the eros that seeks it; and each is diminished. The result of this split is a paralysis of action. Acedia, begone!
When Jesus calls men and women to love their neighbors, they must love them as they love themselves. Knowing what personal state of life I should pursue would help me better fulfill the latter part of Jesus’ invitation. I am a virgin considering a calling to the celibate life, although I do not seek ordination in the Catholic Church. I believe God calls many people to celibacy, but most of them are not willing to accept this. Count me among them. Strongly do I believe I am called to be celibate, and I believe deeply in the goodness of celibacy, but these convictions give me no happiness. You see, I am not a virgin by choice, but of necessity, because I have never had a girlfriend or been in a long-term relationship. How am I to know whether celibacy is right for me without an experience of the emotional intimacy of a mutually exclusive interpersonal relationship? I worry that whatever state I ought to be in, I am missing my calling because of my lack of social skills. I recognize that I am not casual enough to be able to gain the confidence of a few beloved friends (especially female), nor am I intimate enough to retain deep, long-lasting relationships with them. Marriage looks like an impossibility, but I cannot confirm celibacy, and I doubt whether I could live up to either vocation. I’m a dissatisfied single.
Surely this attitude toward relationships is connected to my eros-agape deficit. The psychoanalyst Erich Fromm said men and women work harder at being lovable then at loving. Indeed, they pursue the former with a passionate intensity. I have been led by this temptation into many sins, for I have made an idol of my desire to be loved. I do not honor God when I pray with prayers that pretend to say “I love you” when they really mean “love ME.” Selfishly do I expect people to confide in me, sharing stories, sorrows, fears, and hopes. Wouldn’t it be nice to be sought after as Jesus was sought, with others reaching for the hem of your garment? This is but a daydream, because I do precious little to present myself as one approachable like Jesus. Without having demonstrated loving, who will come to you to be loved? Not knowing what deep happiness and unspeakable joy feel like, I crave them all the more, but only for myself. Eros turns me inward upon myself, and agape is left unpracticed, atrophied. Celibacy becomes a sentence, and I sit alone woefully ruing my lack of experience in human relationships.
Life would be so much simpler if someone with unquestionable authority would just tell me what to do. Even without the why, I would do it. However, life—and, more to the point, life’s creator—does not work that way. God made us to be free, questing spirits and gave us a deep longing for love through which we return to God. Jesus’ call for us to love one another is a commandment to end all commandments, because love, to be love, cannot be commanded at all. Love is an act of freedom. To have freedom is to make your own choice, and to have a questing spirit is to have questions that turn every certainty into doubt. I believe in a supreme authority, but it is not of this world, which is limited and changeable, and so while this authority gives the gift of love, it cannot give to me what I believe belongs only to itself—absolute certainty of commitment and conviction.
Feb. 12, 2006
***
To the above observation I would note that while the issues of agape-eros and relationships remain alive and burning, the crises of commitment and conviction have subsided a little. Not that I have resolved them entirely, but I feel some light has been shed on the questions of what and why. Ironically, that has led to a new and disturbing question: when. Not just when, but when, if ever. It is a crisis of confirmation, of chronos versus kairos, one felt acutely by many of the older seminarians with whom I study but which also leans heavily on me. When, if ever, will it be my turn to proclaim in word and deed, with unmistakable spiritual power, the coming of the reign of God? When, if ever, will it be my turn to give and receive love in a way that leaves no doubt that God has encountered us and changed us all? Will there ever be a time I share God’s love and mine with a partner? Will the community of the faithful confirm the calls that drive me and all my lonely brothers and sisters to these depths of longing? We wait for the inspired moment: that is, the movement of the fiery Spirit.
Letter From Boylston Street #3
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).
Previously I have written that homelessness is a state of being that transcends the material poverty that ordinarily gives rise to it. I say ordinarily because I contend that the state of being with which I associate homelessness may be experienced without material want. Any person who feels cast out of society or cut off from the community experiences the psychological and spiritual equivalent of homelessness. The psychological symptoms include fear, anxiety, depression, feelings of inferiority and worthlessness, and other marks characteristic of trauma. The spiritual symptoms include feelings of guilt, condemnation, and a loss of meaning.
Not all the students in the Moving Ahead Program, our social skills class, are homeless in the narrow sense of lacking shelter. Several are recovering from chemical addiction or mental illness or both. Several are recently paroled from the state penitential system. However, they are all, from the broader perspective I espouse, displaced persons, disaster victims, men and women without a firm footing in the world we have fashioned and to which we cling for sanity and stability. Please remember that there’s nothing intrinsically “wrong” with these men and women, and even if there was, that is not the issue; the problem is that they lack their rightful place in society. Our shelter’s educational services enable them to reclaim such a place. As the pastoral intern, I have been given two small projects within this greater reclamation project: 1) establish a hope-filled correspondence with prisoners waiting to enter our program upon release; and 2) tutor current and former students who seek to pass the GED exam or brush up on their skills.
One of the principal instructors has assigned three students to me. I met the first on Friday. Let’s call her Mallory. A week earlier the instructor prepared me with some basic information about Mallory and her needs. He provided the results of the pre-GED exam she had taken and indicated which skills needed the most development. He provided some resources from which I could build a curriculum for Mallory. But one of the first things he made a point of explaining to me was that Mallory was a transgender person. He said he didn’t know if I had ever seen a transgender person before, so he was telling me this so I wouldn’t be surprised by her. Prior to Mallory I had met three transgender persons. The first was a black transsexual female in Baltimore, a student in the adult education center where I volunteered as a teacher. She was not a student of mine, so I regarded her with polite disinterest. The second and third I met working as a canvasser for the Sierra Club last summer. One, a female androgyne, I regarded internally with disgust, and I never talked to her. The second, a male androgyne, eventually I got along rather well with, but at first repulsed me deeply. Even in his case, I never got over looking at him as a curiosity, a self-made freak, one not to be taken as seriously as any other person.
I spent two and half hours with Mallory on Friday leading review exercises in some basic principles of arithmetic. She had arrived 15 minutes late and was in little condition to learn, suffering badly from a chest cold. It was difficult to conceal my displeasure during the session as she repeatedly succumbed to spasms of coughing and phlegmy hacking. She complained she was hot; she complained she was tired. She said she had to get her nails done; she said she had to purchase her bus ticket. She lamented she wasn’t going to see her friend in Somerville; she lamented she was dying. We trudged through the exercises with as much good will as we could offer each other. Although I maintained a professional kind of cordiality, I couldn’t help but cringe inside.
I must confess that I was relieved when our session was over. Mallory had coughed on me so much, I was sure I had caught some germs. But I’m not so sure that was the chief source of my discomfort. Here’s the nagging question: would I have been so worried about catching a cold if it had been someone else, anyone else? A black, a Latino, a lesbian or gay or bisexual, a homeless person? Mallory was none of these. She was other than these, and this was an other I had not yet learned how to be at home with. I did not know how to make her feel welcome. I must have made her feel, in a word, homeless.
***
That evening I traveled to Jamaica Plain and attended a lecture by George Williamson, a retired Baptist pastor who had participated in the civil rights movement and later joined the antiwar and gay rights movements. The stories he told described his gradual liberation from the structural sin of racism, militarism, and heterosexism, a redemption he said was mediated by the Gospel example of Martin Luther King. His final story concerned crossing yet another frontier into freedom, beyond the wilderness of social sin, with his congregation. One day a cross-dresser entered his church and sat for the service. He received a hug from a woman sitting next to her during the passing of the peace. That woman, a lesbian, spoke to Williamson in his office afterward and confessed that she felt uncomfortable sitting next to the cross-dresser, to the point where she wanted to leave. However, she continued, that would have meant denying to the cross-dresser the same dignity and personhood she had long struggled to achieve. She concluded it would have been hypocritical for her not to welcome this individual. So she embraced the cross-dresser, albeit reluctantly. She said did not particularly feel the love of God between them, but she did her best to love the guest.
A little while later the cross-dresser entered Williamson’s office, lifting praise for his congregation. For the first time he felt like he belonged in a church. He said he was overjoyed because he had been welcomed so openly by the woman who embraced her.
Jesus liked to answer foolhardy questions with his own questions. When the scholar of the law who wished to justify himself asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” the question he received, after the telling of the parable of the Good Samaritan was, “Which of these … was neighbor to the robbers’ victim?” In doing this, of course, Jesus is turning the question backward and back on his interrogator. To ask who your neighbor is, is the wrong question; it is better to ask if you are being the neighbor. It’s another way, to quote George Williamson, of “Jesus jerking us around.”
Lord, help me to recognize the sin into which I was born, the sin that I have tacitly accepted and appropriated, the sin that I now confess as my own. Help me to love my neighbor like Jesus and make your mercy manifest. I cannot be a neighbor to the poor unless I make the poor feel at home with me. Let us rebuild homes for the victims of poverty, racism, militarism, and heterosexism; let us build homes for those who have yet to feel at home in our society. By your manifold grace let us become neighbors in your glorious kin(g)dom, Mallory and me. We’re not going to be redeemed apart from each other; save us now, and save us together.
Jesus, jerk me around if you must. Amen.
Previously I have written that homelessness is a state of being that transcends the material poverty that ordinarily gives rise to it. I say ordinarily because I contend that the state of being with which I associate homelessness may be experienced without material want. Any person who feels cast out of society or cut off from the community experiences the psychological and spiritual equivalent of homelessness. The psychological symptoms include fear, anxiety, depression, feelings of inferiority and worthlessness, and other marks characteristic of trauma. The spiritual symptoms include feelings of guilt, condemnation, and a loss of meaning.
Not all the students in the Moving Ahead Program, our social skills class, are homeless in the narrow sense of lacking shelter. Several are recovering from chemical addiction or mental illness or both. Several are recently paroled from the state penitential system. However, they are all, from the broader perspective I espouse, displaced persons, disaster victims, men and women without a firm footing in the world we have fashioned and to which we cling for sanity and stability. Please remember that there’s nothing intrinsically “wrong” with these men and women, and even if there was, that is not the issue; the problem is that they lack their rightful place in society. Our shelter’s educational services enable them to reclaim such a place. As the pastoral intern, I have been given two small projects within this greater reclamation project: 1) establish a hope-filled correspondence with prisoners waiting to enter our program upon release; and 2) tutor current and former students who seek to pass the GED exam or brush up on their skills.
One of the principal instructors has assigned three students to me. I met the first on Friday. Let’s call her Mallory. A week earlier the instructor prepared me with some basic information about Mallory and her needs. He provided the results of the pre-GED exam she had taken and indicated which skills needed the most development. He provided some resources from which I could build a curriculum for Mallory. But one of the first things he made a point of explaining to me was that Mallory was a transgender person. He said he didn’t know if I had ever seen a transgender person before, so he was telling me this so I wouldn’t be surprised by her. Prior to Mallory I had met three transgender persons. The first was a black transsexual female in Baltimore, a student in the adult education center where I volunteered as a teacher. She was not a student of mine, so I regarded her with polite disinterest. The second and third I met working as a canvasser for the Sierra Club last summer. One, a female androgyne, I regarded internally with disgust, and I never talked to her. The second, a male androgyne, eventually I got along rather well with, but at first repulsed me deeply. Even in his case, I never got over looking at him as a curiosity, a self-made freak, one not to be taken as seriously as any other person.
I spent two and half hours with Mallory on Friday leading review exercises in some basic principles of arithmetic. She had arrived 15 minutes late and was in little condition to learn, suffering badly from a chest cold. It was difficult to conceal my displeasure during the session as she repeatedly succumbed to spasms of coughing and phlegmy hacking. She complained she was hot; she complained she was tired. She said she had to get her nails done; she said she had to purchase her bus ticket. She lamented she wasn’t going to see her friend in Somerville; she lamented she was dying. We trudged through the exercises with as much good will as we could offer each other. Although I maintained a professional kind of cordiality, I couldn’t help but cringe inside.
I must confess that I was relieved when our session was over. Mallory had coughed on me so much, I was sure I had caught some germs. But I’m not so sure that was the chief source of my discomfort. Here’s the nagging question: would I have been so worried about catching a cold if it had been someone else, anyone else? A black, a Latino, a lesbian or gay or bisexual, a homeless person? Mallory was none of these. She was other than these, and this was an other I had not yet learned how to be at home with. I did not know how to make her feel welcome. I must have made her feel, in a word, homeless.
***
That evening I traveled to Jamaica Plain and attended a lecture by George Williamson, a retired Baptist pastor who had participated in the civil rights movement and later joined the antiwar and gay rights movements. The stories he told described his gradual liberation from the structural sin of racism, militarism, and heterosexism, a redemption he said was mediated by the Gospel example of Martin Luther King. His final story concerned crossing yet another frontier into freedom, beyond the wilderness of social sin, with his congregation. One day a cross-dresser entered his church and sat for the service. He received a hug from a woman sitting next to her during the passing of the peace. That woman, a lesbian, spoke to Williamson in his office afterward and confessed that she felt uncomfortable sitting next to the cross-dresser, to the point where she wanted to leave. However, she continued, that would have meant denying to the cross-dresser the same dignity and personhood she had long struggled to achieve. She concluded it would have been hypocritical for her not to welcome this individual. So she embraced the cross-dresser, albeit reluctantly. She said did not particularly feel the love of God between them, but she did her best to love the guest.
A little while later the cross-dresser entered Williamson’s office, lifting praise for his congregation. For the first time he felt like he belonged in a church. He said he was overjoyed because he had been welcomed so openly by the woman who embraced her.
Jesus liked to answer foolhardy questions with his own questions. When the scholar of the law who wished to justify himself asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” the question he received, after the telling of the parable of the Good Samaritan was, “Which of these … was neighbor to the robbers’ victim?” In doing this, of course, Jesus is turning the question backward and back on his interrogator. To ask who your neighbor is, is the wrong question; it is better to ask if you are being the neighbor. It’s another way, to quote George Williamson, of “Jesus jerking us around.”
Lord, help me to recognize the sin into which I was born, the sin that I have tacitly accepted and appropriated, the sin that I now confess as my own. Help me to love my neighbor like Jesus and make your mercy manifest. I cannot be a neighbor to the poor unless I make the poor feel at home with me. Let us rebuild homes for the victims of poverty, racism, militarism, and heterosexism; let us build homes for those who have yet to feel at home in our society. By your manifold grace let us become neighbors in your glorious kin(g)dom, Mallory and me. We’re not going to be redeemed apart from each other; save us now, and save us together.
Jesus, jerk me around if you must. Amen.
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