Dead Babies on Christmas: Xmas Beyond Biblicism

Murdered infants and toddlers don't exactly make many Hallmark Christmas greetings. But according to the Christmas story in Matthew, Herod "slew all the children in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under" (Matt. 2:16). Those of us familiar with the tale know that an angel warned the holy family to flee to Egypt in order to avoid this atrocity (an atrocity whose historicity is in question for a number of reasons). Without salvation from this decree of baby homicide, Jesus would have died long before the cross. Since we know the end of the story, we can read this part of the story understanding why God saved Jesus.

But even in spite of the story's ending, why didn't God save the other children? Surely these babies deserved deliverance from death. A child does not need to be the Messiah in order to deserve Physical salvation. After all, isn't that a large part of what the gospel story is about? Before Jesus died for the sins of the world, babies died for him, died to placate Herod's megalomania. God chose God's only son over these innocent children in order that Jesus could sacrifice himself for such children. 

This is a problem for the Christmas story as it is read in popular US culture, but not for Christmas itself. Christmas should not be about certain interpretations of the Bible, viz., attempts to read the Bible as nothing other than literal and historically accurate and attempts to fit the Bible into a sort of positive hits radio station. Christmas is neither Lee Strobel's "The Case for Christmas" or the so-called holiday spirit. By remembering this story of infanticide, I am challenged to think about the underside of my own blessings. Who pays for my gifts in non-monetary ways? Who is forgotten in the media-created idea of "the war on Christmas." What happens to those in need after the generosity of the holiday spirit fades into memories of Christmas past? 

A Tale of Two Prejudices

Below, I tell two stories. One short, the other long. Throughout, I try to expose certain prejudices while allowing for different interpretations of these stories. When I discussed these stories with my partner, she was skeptical about the sexism I saw in one, and, in the other, she told me the story could easily be in a "When God Winks" book if i told it differently. I want these possibilities that undercut my own interpretation, because these counter possibilities expose how our own intentions and self-interpretations are not the final story of our lives. Our self-understanding and self-projection of identity equals neither who we are or how we impact the world around us.

I believe a first step in overcoming a problem is acknowledging it. I tell these stories to acknowledge problems in myself and in the privilege inherent in men, white people, and the educated in the US. These are my problems, but not only my problems, and I need different people to complete not only who I am, but who I want to be and who I should be. Let me repeat, I need non-white, non-male, uneducated, non-US citizens in order to be the best me I can be. One way I need them, is to see how they see me and make myself better through their gaze.

The stories below are my attempt at  recognizing those gazes.

====

When I conduct a phone interview, I open, "Hi, is this so-and-so?" Today my first question was, "May I speak with so-and-so?" The reason for the difference is sexism. To explain, let me tell you about my day today. It is Monday, August 18, 2014, and I'm a white, heterosexual male in the US.

My daily commute is a mile walk, two trains (Chicago Transit Authority 'L' lines Brown & Green), and another mile walk. I am a Student Office Assistant in a department that specializes in technology and science. The specifics of what "we" do is largely beyond me.

On my second walk this morning, I notice a man standing behind a water fountain. He has the fountain on, but he does not seem to be doing anything with it like drinking or washing. The closer I get, the less I look at the him, so as not to stare.

He speaks to me as I near him, so I respond. As I continue past, he continues speaking, so I turn to him, because all people deserve respect. The water fountain is now off.

I sigh on the inside, because I figure he is going to ask me for money. He tells me he appreciates how I look at him. He says this as he introduces his pitch. He tells me a lot of U Chicago students are nice people who look at black people like human beings, not black beings. I also look at him like he is a panhandler, which he either leaves unmentioned or unnoticed as he stumbles hurriedly to the money part.

He needs diapers for his granddaughter. He sees my wedding band and asks if I am married, if I have kids. "How long have you been married?" He sees my face change to pride and love as we speak about my partner briefly.

"I was just on my knees praying," he says as he beckons west towards areas known as "rough." Chicagolanders have wide eyes when they hear I walk to and from the Garfield Green Line station to campus. I tell job candidates that the areas surrounding Hyde Park are known as "sketch," and people generally don't recommend going West of campus, not even to Washington Park that borders the campus. (Recently the park was adjacent to an early afternoon incident. Two teenagers were shot during the Bud Billiken parade, one in the arm, the other in the hand. The second teen also had his keister grazed by a bullet.)

"I was just on my knees, [...] and I don't know if you're an angel."

If his story is true, I wonder, then I don't completely understand why he thinks I am an angel. If God didn't help him before now, why now? Why a chubby white man in jeans and a skinny knit tie? I make a mental note to tell him I am not an angel. His theology could be right in some places where mine is not, but I am no angel. He is wrong on that point.

$13.88 is how much the diapers supposedly cost. I don't have kids, so I don't know if that is right. A specific price makes panhandlers seem more truthful. Before he mentioned the price, from the moment I turned to listen to him, I planned to give him the three dollar-bills in my wallet. Now I plan to give him the other bill in my wallet; it's a $20.

I don't know anything about the veracity of his story, but I'm not completely naïve. Rather, I strive to be giving, compassionate, and hopeful, even if it means losing that $20 that was supposed to be saved for laundry. That $20 that I briefly lifted from my wallet earlier this morning, thinking I should leave it in the house or give it to my partner, because, otherwise I would give it away when asked. (I forgot about this moment until the moment I wrote this reflection on my commute home, riding the Brown Line towards Kimball.) I don't know why I put the bill back in my wallet this morning. God? An angel? I would put my money on a coincidence. If God is going to send anything, I would imagine God would send that man's granddaughter more than one package of diapers. But I don't even understand what the scientists and programmers in my office do, so I won't claim to know how the universe "exists" and "operates" (both of these words in scare quotes are metaphors when applied to things that are simultaneously our existence and the ground of our existence, both physical and metaphysical).

He finally asks me if I can get him the diapers. I hand him the $20, and he showers me with more flattery. He then mentions something about needing a bus fare. Did he see the bills remaining in my wallet? Was he really asking for more money after I handed him $6.12 more than he claimed he needed? I told him he had what he needed in the $20, and that he could do what he wanted with it. He thanked me, saying he just wanted to make sure. Make sure of what? Did he think I expected him to bring me change?

"If anyone tries to bother you or your wife, I'll be the first one to come help."

"Let's hope it never comes to that, but thanks, [name omitted]. And, listen man, I'm no angel!"

I head off to work, and he continues speaking. I'm late now, so I walk away as I turn my head to return pleasantries.

===

Five minutes past 1 PM CST, I make a phone call to someone who wants to be a bioinformatician in the office in which I work. I have never seen this name before, so I hope I don't say it too wrong, assuming there are levels of wrongness.

"Hello?"

"Hello, may I speak with [mispronounced name omitted]?"

"Yes, this is she."

I apologize for my tardiness, and give her my spiel, but my mind is on how I opened the phone call. My heart dropped the moment she identified herself as the person with whom I wanted to speak. I expected a man's voice. I expected a man's voice so much, that I could not imagine I was speaking with the applicant when I heard a voice in the soprano register. I really thought I was speaking with the man's mother, sister, or female partner.

I was sexist. I am sexist. I am a privileged inheritor of systemic misogyny with an ignorance of "non-white" names. The first step to fighting the problem and spending out the inheritance? Acknowledgement. If only more white men in the US (especially the heteronormative) would stop scoffing at the existence of sexism, racism, heteronormative oppression and start fighting the existence of these evils. If only.

===

My commute home goes alongside U Chicago's sports fields, behind the DuSable Museum of African American History, enters Washington Park, and then continues for two blocks along 55th St/Garfield to get on the Green Line. Just as I leave the building and walk towards the soccer field, I try to remember the name of the man with my $20. Was it biblical? No. It shared a name with a street I pass on my commute. I remember, and my mind drifts to other things.

Before I reach the tennis courts at the western boundary of campus--not even 5 minutes after recalling his name--I see the man with my $20 who shares a name with a street I pass. I was going to say hello, make sure he knew I remembered his name, and keep walking. I'm an introvert, and I am always in a hurry to get home for dinner and my partner.

I say hello, and he recognizes me. Of course he recognizes me, I handed him a $20 bill, and I'm wearing a bright bright shirt and a horizontally striped knit tie. I stand out a little. As I awkwardly stand listening to him, I adjust my tie, and he comments on it. He is observant. This morning he noticed my ring as I fidgeted with my coffee cup, passing it from hand to hand. If he is a regular panhandler, he is good at it. However, I would prefer a short story with little talk about me. Don't flatter me, just ask me for the money. Whether a sucker or generous, I'm probably going to give it if I have it. Of course, he doesn't know that about me.

He thanks me for earlier, and he tells me about his sister, granddaughter, and, I think, wife. This morning he told me he wished he had gotten married, at least I thought he had. I didn't fully listen to or understand everything he said in the morning or afternoon. It doesn't matter if his story is completely or partially true or false. He said someone cried when he told them that a white man gave him that money.

This, too, leads to a supplication. I hadn't realized this conversation could have been a pitch. Maybe he remembered the greens peaking out of my wallet this morning after I handed him a $20: the last $3 in my wallet. He was going to get something to eat. If he was already on his way, why did he need my $3? But the money was out of my wallet and transferring hands before I gave a second thought. I send a text to my partner immediately after this chance meeting, telling her I'm soft.

I finally make sure he knows I remember his name, and he smiles when I do. He has a jacket and a bag in his right hand, so, instead of shaking, he presents his fist, and our knuckles meet. He tells me that if I ever need anything or anyone is messing with me, then I should  tell him. (... as if I would know how to find him. I've walked that same path for a year and never seen him until today, when I saw him twice, the man with my $23 who shares a name with a street I pass daily.)

And so we part. I leave without any cash in my wallet; he leaves with $3 more of my dollars, dollars from either a sucker, a man striving towards compassion, or someone somewhere in between. Whatever I am, I'm no angel. Angels don't give away each of the twenty-three dollars in their wallet the same day they expect a qualified job applicant to be a man based on her qualifications and decent application materials. Angels don't wonder if they'll soon see the man with my $23 who shares a nam with a street I pass because the man thinks he found a soft target. Angels don't send text messages to their partners stating they shouldn't be allowed to carry their money very often because of how often he gives it away.

Angels give more than $23, too. Right? Oh God how I wish they would. Amen?

===

*Update: As of today, August 31, 2014, I have yet to see the man again or carry money in my wallet on my commute.

An Extra 65¢

Last night, a guy on the street asked me for 35¢ as I was walking to my car. I hardly ever have change on me, so I gave him a dollar.

I hesitated before giving him the dollar. It wasn't so much because I wondered about whether it was moral or for the greater good, but rather because I thought he might want the change to make a phone call. What good is a bill when you need change for the pay phone?

I gave him the dollar as I wondered how much pay phones cost these days and where the closest one would be. I figure he had been collecting money throughout the day and only needed 35 more cents for whatever it was he wanted to purchase--food, drink, or otherwise. Or maybe he finds it is easier to get money when you ask for a small, specific amount.

He took the dollar and said, in valediction, "God bless you."

God bless me? If God is in the business of honoring the blessings we give, then that man should have blessed himself. I can't imagine he was blessed by my dollar. Regardless of his intents for the money--need or luxury--it wasn't the sort of generosity or aid to do him any true good. My "good deed" was neither God nor I blessing that man. I made a near-meaningless act and he returned it with a formulaic expression that encourages many people to continue "giving." 

His blessing was likely more out of manners and decorum than any true desire. It was economic: I give him something and he gives me something in return: a blessing for a dollar. "God bless you" is a turn of phrase these days, but it gave me pause to think.

I believe in giving more than I believe in questioning the intentions of those who ask. It isn't my job to judge. But I always fear I might give to fight guilt and to diminish the sense of a greater responsibility. Or to create a façade of a holy ethic and a persona that I am Godly, Christ-ly, and Love-ly (others might prefer to use other terms here, Allah-like, Buddha-like, or a purveyor of great karma).

I gave a $1. That's 65¢ more than he asked for. That's not all I give. I give money to Compassion International to support a child through an organization that I don't support ideologically/theologically. I allow my employer to take a percentage of my paycheck for its benevolent fund. I recycle. I buy fairly traded products. I support local agriculture and businesses. Sometimes.

God bless me? Why? Because of an extra 65¢? Because I mute the voices of the oppressed by throwing money in their general direction when I could be giving them me?

I recently heard a well-known speaker say that if faith does not cost us something, then it is nothing. Only much later could I respond: if faith does not cost us everything, it is nothing. (Peter Rollins, How (Not) To Speak of God)

I disrespect myself, my faith, my political stances--everything I believe and am--as well as those around me when I only give money, buy organic, or shop at Whole Foods. An extra 65¢ is not enough.

God bless America, God bless me, and God bless us, every one.

What's the Difference? College Students, Homeless People, & Me

I had dinner with last night. At some point, she told some stories about working with people who worked at her father's restaurant. He would hire women on work release (a noble act to help society). One statement stuck out to me: "I was talking to this woman who was my age, but with two kids, another one on the way, and on work release."

I started thinking about The Beacon, the homeless shelter at which I worked and volunteered once. I remember checking in a high school senior whose parents kicked him out to teach him lesson.

I started thinking about how similar my current job is to my job working at the homeless shelter:

Oversee check in/out of clients
Develop helping relationships
Make proper referrals
Listen
Respond to drugs, alcohol, drunkenness, violence, theft, sneaking in/out, manipulation, threats, favors, suicide attempts, suicidal ideation, suicide, self-cutting, interpersonal conflict, depression, mental illness, social awkwardness, and gossip, among other things
Promote and enforce policies
Confront policy violations

There are a number of differences as well, but the major one is the most obvious: the clientele. That delineation is not age, because, as already stated, the age of men at the homeless shelter dipped as low as 18. And we all know children, too, are homeless.

Family help isn't the main difference either. I have college students who are on their own and I knew men at the shelter who visited with family and received things from them often.

A permanent home doesn't really put a name to the difference. A residence hall is about as permanent a home as a homeless shelter. Your time in both of them is limited somehow. At the shelter, you could generally only stay 90 days before having to leave for a two week period. After that absence, you could stay for 60 days. And then 30 days. In the residence hall, you leave in the summer and after you graduate. Even the men in the homeless shelter had somewhere to go during their absence, be it a tent, a friend's home, a family member's couch, or an abandoned building nobody knew he was sleeping in.

Economic status could be the line separating the two groups. Then again, they both receive money for which they don't work, be that money from the government in the form of food stamps or from family members in the form of gifts and allowances. Both are also in debt, be that debt from a foreclosure or from accruing student loans.

A college student isn't all that different from a person staying the night in a homeless shelter.

I'm not all that different from a college student or a person staying the night in a homeless shelter.

I have student loan debt. I have my addictions. I have my vices. I am a slave to many passions, desires, oppressions, and economic and social mores. I earn some things and feel entitled to others. I mishandle interpersonal conflict. I demand change, completely ignoring the words of those more knowledgeable and experienced, even when they tell me the lack of change is for a good reason.

I can keep highlighting the différance, keep pointing how the differences are not necessarily meaningless, but rather unspeakable, and yet, they are still visible. I'm living in a two-bedroom apartment while others live in a room with 50 beds. Some live on the streets. Some live in dumpsters or worse.

Why that difference? If we're so similar, why do their problems place them on the streets while my problems can be hidden enough that I can be an entry-level professional? Why do some people, including both clienteles, handle stress with drugs, while others use alcohol, eating, television, sports, abuse, sex, possessions, social interaction, technology, books, and/or self-mutilation? Is it God who hard-wired people to do these things? Is it Satan or demons who randomly succeed in tempting certain people with certain things? Is it fate? Chance? Genetics? Evolution?

Maybe there are better questions to ask. What are we doing about these differences? What am I doing about these differences? Is there anything I can do about these differences? Should I be doing anything about these differences?

If I help the college students, am I also helping the homeless? Don't both groups need help? Is it better to help one as opposed to helping the other/Other?

I still receive picture messages from a formerly-homeless man. I call him Romeo. At least, last time I checked he was formerly-homeless. His messages are all chain messages, sometimes addressing faith and sometimes including terribly vulgar pictures. I never read the messages, but I always wonder how he is doing. And I wonder if I'm still a contact in his phone for a reason. If I made a difference. If I'm making a difference. If the differences I experience--privilege--are meaningful and what, if anything, I can and should do about them.

Whatever I do, I will never forget The Beacon. And on some level, I will always help. Helping them is helping myself, since we're not all that different.

I miss you guys.

"You Got Your Own Life," Said Littl'un

It was an emotional morning at the food ministry today.

It seems the two people in charge always find new ways to belittle and dehumanize the people they are serving. Soften their hearts, Mighty Lover

I saw an old friend there, today: Littl'un. He just got out of prison for a DUI, he told me. At first, I thought he was a little drunk, but as the conversation went on, he seemed sober enough. However, people who drink as much as he does seem to hold their own when intoxicated.

We caught up a little and near the end of the conversation, he complained and badmouthed some of the men who live at the shelter. I always listen, but I am often uncomfortable when men from the shelter speak poorly of one another.

At one point, Littl'un asked me if I had been at the shelter or had plans to start working or volunteering back there. I told him I hadn't been there and would like to go over there again, but I would be inconsistent. He responded with words he has uttered to me many times before: "Well, you got your own life."

He cannot know the pain those words cause me. God forbid my life ever excludes helping people. My "own life," as Littl'un puts it--my goals, my ideals, my pursuit of happiness, my searching for God and searching with God--is the reason I went to the shelter in the first place. It is the reason I go to the food ministry, the reason I get mad when the people at the church are belittled and dehumanized.

It is the reason I wrestle, the reason I write, the reason I seek God, the reason I seek with God.

God, bless that man for caring about me and wanting me to be "successful," even if that success means I do not help him or others. What a wonderful thing he wants for me. What care he has!

But God, please, please help me give away my "own life." Prompt me to offer it to others, lead me from the temptation to keep it or take it back once it is given. I'm at peace with my relationship to the shelter and the reasons I left. Thank you for giving me opportunities to continue relationships made there, although I hope many of those relationships will end, because those men will cease to need meals served to them, will cease to need an awkward friend like me.

I want to be like you.

Amen.

Called Through Change & Tears

This story contains a reflection on call as a part of a homework assignment to describe my call to ministry.

I experienced a call to ministry today. It happened today, September 9, 2010, between noon and 12:30 when I made a 54-year old man cry.

It happened before then, actually, when this same man waved at me as I was leaving the food ministry at Shelby Presbyterian Church. He waved and I stopped to ask if he wanted a ride somewhere. He got in the car and told me he wanted to go to "some store."

We joked a little bit about how I called him the wrong name when I saw him that morning. It was the first time I had seen him since summer break. I called him Robbie and he didn't correct me. As he was finishing his lunch, I went over to him and apologized for calling him Robbie as I had randomly realized his name isn't Robbie.

He gave me directions to a certain store and he reminisced about the textile industry that once made Shelby an industrial city. He told me he loved working in the mill and wishes he could work again, maybe washing dishes. He said even those jobs are hard to find when you're in your 50s. He didn't say so, but I imagine it is even harder when you're 50 and homeless.

He asked me for some change at some point during this trip. I handed him my cup-holder ashtray and told him he could take whatever he wanted. Over the sounds of the shifting change and my car engine, he told me not to give him that option.

The conversation quickly changed and I thought about another man who asked me for change earlier that day. I had just pumped 12.52 gallons of fuel into my car. At $2.559 per gallon, my tank of gas cost me $32.04. When I got back in my car, it wouldn't start. My car has a security system on the fritz. As a result, sometimes my car thinks I'm stealing it and shuts off the gas flow to the engine for about ten minutes. During this ten minutes, a man walked by and caught my eye. He was going to see his grandfather, an amputee I had been watching who was sitting by a trash can in front of the store. The man who walked by asked me for change and I planned to give him all the change in my cup-holder ashtray. However, the container was full and I thought it would be burdensome to give the change to this man, not to mention the man's trouble in carrying it. I took about half of it and dumped it into his cupped hands.

While thinking about this man from earlier, I continued conversing with my friend. We neared the gas station and as the car slowed to a stop, he again asked if I could give him some change. He handed me the change and I proceeded to dump it into his cupped hands.

He began to cry as the coins began to fall out of his hands, onto his lap, and then onto the passenger seat. Twenty cents, to be exact. He told me he only wanted enough for a beer. Through his tears he then said, "You know I'm going to buy a beer with this?"

"I know," I replied.

Then he repeated a phrase he had said two or three times since he first embraced me that morning: "I love you, Trevar. I mean it."

Behind my sunglasses, my eyes reached that pre-tear state where they appear glossy, but the tears never fell. I moved a switch and my left-turn signal began to flash. I pulled away from the store and drove down the street to the grocery store, spending $21.92 on low-fat, organic, and natural foods. I saved 20¢ as an Ingles Advantage Card member. I paid with my debit card and received $20 back, bringing the cash value inside my wallet to $22: two ten-spots, and two one dollar bills. I wanted the cash to buy apples from a local farm stand.

The monetary contrasts of the day stood out to me. The numbers stuck in my head. I spent over $50 on food and gas and took $20 out of my bank account to spend on more food. In between my spending, I spent time with those who didn't have enough money to buy food. I probably didn't even give him $2. Estimating on the high side, I might have given away $5 in coins. My friend left 20¢ on my seat and I "saved" 20¢ at the grocery store.

In retrospect, it is the numbers, circumstances, and God that called me to ministry today, just like other days. I was called to give myself away--to be like Christ. Today I fulfilled that calling by giving away change and a little more than change. Tomorrow I hope I give more. One day, I hope to give away everything. On that day, I might be miraculously multiplied like the body of Christ and the loaves and fishes. But even if my God chooses not to multiply what I am giving away, I will give nonetheless and find the giving worth it. It is my calling.

Funny the Way It Is: Two Homes & Two Homeless Men

"Funny the way it is, when you think about it," sings Dave Matthews on his bands' newest CD. The chorus goes on to display the contrast between how one person can be enjoying a blessing that is related to someone else's sorrow. Kids might be playing outside, enjoying some of the most spectacular weather while the same sunny skies shine on someone's house burning down; "one kid walks ten miles to school, another's dropping out ... somebody's broken heart becomes your favorite song."

A friend of mine called me the other day--the tattoo guy. I like to use the word "friend" to describe him, but I am not naïve enough to think our relationship is a friendship. Perhaps we might be acquaintances, but mostly, our relationship is based in resources. We shoot the bull and catch up with each other, but only when he needs something or sometimes I feel guilty about not reaching out to him (hopefully I don't always reach out in guilt). Not the healthiest relationship, but it is a relationship nonetheless. We're trying, at least, and when at our best, we might fool ourselves.

I set myself up for this relationship. I gave him my phone number one night after he left the homeless shelter and he needed some food. I told him to use my number if he ever needed something. I never promised help, but I told him he should try and be persistent. He sends me text messages most often when he wants a ride to recovery meetings. He has also sent a few messages asking for financial help. Sometimes I can help him out, sometimes I can't. It was rough for me the first time he wanted a large chunk of change for his phone bill and I said no. I thought that might be the end of our relationship.

But it wasn't. He called me early this week. He told me things were bad. He had been staying with his girlfriend's family. And this friend of mine--I can imagine him being hard to live with. He has quite the temper, is vulgar, and doesn't seem to care too much for the lives of others. He told me the family was yelling at him and he couldn't take it anymore, so he left. I have heard this story before, just with different people yelling at him.

He was staying at the place where the recovery groups meet, because he has a key. His girlfriend showed up soon after. I don't know if he intended for her to come or not. He might have meant to leave her.

She is pregnant. Very pregnant. I wouldn't be surprised if she had the baby since I spoke with him earlier this week. He said she couldn't go to the homeless shelter, because they feared the baby would be taken away.

He never asked for anything from me during this conversation. I think he intended to ask, though. It doesn't matter either way. I was just glad he called and opened up to me. When I mentioned I was in West Virginia for the summer, he said, "Oh, shit, well," and then continued talking about how he didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to do either. Perhaps I should have called DSS. Who am I to say the child will live a better life adopted or in foster care?

After speaking with this friend, I thought of another guy I met at the shelter. I've mentioned him before, calling him Romeo. I sent a text message to Romeo to check up on him. He said things were going so great for him. He had moved to South Carolina where he was living with his new girlfriend.

I was happy for Romeo, but unnerved by the contrast between him and my other friend. Over the next couple of days Romeo continued to send me text messages. The relationship became rocky. I got updates of ups and downs, so many that I stopped responding. I wasn't annoyed, but I simply had nothing to say. Today I learned he is back in town where he started. He goes back and forth on whether or not he'll be with this woman again, a lot depending on "when she finds herself." He thought he had a place lined up to stay. The last message I got said he has nowhere to go. I suggested the shelter, but he thinks he has too much stuff with him to go to the shelter.

I have an apartment on campus at Gardner-Webb University in North Carolina. Right now only my fish and cactus occupy it, because I am living in a trailer Fayetteville, WV for a summer internship. I have two places to live and I know three people (maybe three and a baby) with no place to live.

Funny, the way it is.

Well, I'm not sure funny is the right word to describe it.

I'm an Enabler

This morning I may have encouraged people not to go to church.

It started when I went to the homeless shelter in Shelby to volunteer. I have not been to the shelter in a few weeks and the only person expecting me was the night worker. I was met with mixed reactions to my presence Sunday morning.

A few of the men were excited to see me. A few ready to leave for church were confused about why I would come in on Sunday morning instead of Sunday afternoon. Another couple expressed they were no longer planning on going to church, since the shelter would be open. In the past, one of the men told me I enabled the men to not attend church. That morning, I wondered if this enabling was good, bad, or even true.

After a few hours, one of the men came to the office to talk to me. This man is changing because of his homelessness. He is losing hope, he is getting angry, and he is turning somewhat neurotic from living in the shelter instead of a home. He told me he plans to go sleep under the bridge, expecting the streets to be more favorable than the shelter. He said he is thinking about returning to smoking marijuana and drinking, because life is too much.

Somehow the topic of church came up. When he goes to church, he goes because of a few people. I remember he used to attend one church religiously because of a family that was sharing their meals, transportation, family, and home with him. The family was a married couple and their few young children and they shared their lives with the late-20s, homeless man.

He went to church with them, because they went. He did not go to church because he liked church. He summarized for me what he heard from preachers and churches in general: “It’ll get better.” He heard this message continually and was continually sent on his way, with the exception of this one family. One day something happened between that man and the family and I never discerned what, but their connection and their shared lives were severed. He was once again sent on his way. But, it will get better. Right?

I was uncomfortable with the idea of being the man enabling people to avoid church. That is, I was uncomfortable until that last conversation. Instead, I was uncomfortable with the church.

How can anyone ever say something will get better without trying to make it better? Perhaps some things a person cannot impact, but Christ’s followers are called to be Christ’s body. When I pray for God to do something, I often expect God to move through me, to perfect the divine strength in my weakness.

And what was I doing for this man? I was providing shelter for him at a time when most small-city, Southern places are closed. I was saving him from the broken gospel of so many churches. I was an ear, listening. But I still felt so impotent. I still feel so impotent. I never want to work against the church, for we can find power in community and numbers, especially when it comes to problems of poverty and homelessness.

I wonder where the church was that morning. I could have left the shelter and passed a lot of steeples with a lot of cars surrounding it. But I wonder where I would have found the church. The church is not me. One young man can neither be nor know the church. I might not know what the church is or where it is, but I know I have yet to experience its fullness.

I do not know what to expect for this fullness, either. I hope it involves a spectrum of generations. I hope it involves things getting better, because the whole span of the generations are committed to making things better. I hope it involves love and care of the body and love and care of those outside the body. I hope it realizes and balances love of God, love of neighbor, and love of self in a way I cannot even begin to comprehend.

Easter 2010: Serving Instead of Attending a Service

This past week, I started making plans for Resurrection Sunday. To a friend, I mentioned a desire to eat with a few formerly-homeless people I know. I wasn't sure if everything would work and this friend noted we could make food for the whole shelter.

Come Sunday morning, instead of getting up early, dressing to the nines, and going to some sort of "service" in which I wonder who exactly is being served, I played the harmonica in a rocking chair on the porch before I started peeling potatoes.

Instead of going to a service, we served. We cooked a few hams; three, large green bean casseroles; around 15lbs worth of mashed potatoes; 10lbs of carrots; corn; and rolls. Well, we didn't make the carrots, corn, and rolls, but we did prepare them.

After the food was ready, we delivered and shared in a meal with the homeless people (due to the nature of the women's shelter and our demographic, we only ate with the homeless men, although we delivered food to both). What joy! The men are such a pleasure to visit with--I wish more people would experience the joy of their company.

In essence, we shared the Eucharist. Earlier in the day, three of us had wine and bread, remembering Christ in cultic repetition, symbolizing our unity with Jesus and each other in suffering and resurrection, becoming the body and blood of Jesus. But at the shelter, we also had Eucharist, although there was certainly no wine involved.

Although we did not consume the elements, we were the elements. We thank God for that communal experience, embodying the word "eucharist," which means "thanksgiving." Not only did we give thanks, but we gave a reason for others to give thanks--taking a blessing and making it a blessing for others.

This Easter was the best Easter I've had since I spent part of the day as a quadriplegic when I had my bout with thyrotoxic periodic paralysis 10 years ago.

Living the Gospel in Different Places

I helped a friend move into his new apartment today. I saw him at church on Thursday morning. He was there to be served a meal. I was there to volunteer my hands and ears. He asked for my ears first.

He excitedly told me he finally got his apartment. He had been talking about this event for a while and it was finally here. He is no longer homeless. He is another of the wonderful men becoming "(un)sheltered," moving from the shelter to a shelter of his own.

A few weeks ago he moved out of the shelter, because his time was up. He could have come back on the winter nights program, but he reaped the generosity of one of the other men who recently moved out. So, he became the Parson's roommate for a while. After he left the shelter, I offered me and my car to help him move things.

We had put his worldly possessions in a storage unit. It was probably a 5' x 10'. I saw all of his worldly possessions fit inside a storage unit, and with room to spare. A lot of room.

Last month I helped a friend of mine move from North Carolina to Washington state. She and I probably have a similar amount of possessions. I watched her sell things, give things away, mail multiple boxes, and then purchase a roof bag so the two of us could cram into the car with all her earthly possessions (excluding her cats, which flew separately) for the cross-country trip.

We really packed things into her car. I consolidated boxes, making as much room as possible. We stuffed items around her spare tire. We piled items high, giving us barely enough space to see out the back window, and the roof bag was far from empty.

When we we moved Romeo's stuff in the storage unit, there was no art to it, no skill needed. We took the trash bags full of his belongings and tossed them randomly into the 5' x 10'. His clothes on hangers remained on hangers and were laid on top of a box. He didn't even cover the bottom of the unit. He only took a few changes of clothes with him to Parson's. When we moved him into his apartment, we haphazardly filled up my back seat and put a few items in the trunk, leaving probably half of his possessions in storage.

His apartment is a two bedroom. I only saw the downstairs, which consisted of a barren kitchen and a living room with a pull-out couch he sleeps on, a coffee table, some sort of table with cabinets, and a chair. I didn't think about what the kitchen cabinets and refrigerator looked like on the inside. I assume Old Mother Hubbard would feel right at home though.

I offered him an egg crate cushion a friend gave me to offer one of the less-fortunate people I encounter. Then I saw a twin-size comforter in my trunk and he received it, noting how he had been wondering what he would do for a blanket. I had taken the blanket when school ended last year and one of my residents apparently decided he didn't need it and it would do well to be in the trash. He noticed a roll of toilet paper cluttering the floor of my back seat and sheepishly asked if he could have it.

While at the shelter later that night, I compared the carloads of my two friends: one a formerly homeless, white male in his forties; the other a 25-year old, single, white female with two master's degrees. I don't think either of them are where they wish they were. They probably never hoped they would be where they are today.

Was one in a better situation than the other? Which one am I more like? Where will I be when I graduate with my two master's degrees? Where will I be when I am in my forties? Where do I hope to be in either of those situations?

Then I reflected on my purchasing habits. My kitchen cabinets are full of food. If I am in the mood for fruit, I'll buy a few cans of fruit along with some fresh fruit. The fresh fruit goes bad, because my fruit mood doesn't last long and the cans stay in my cabinet until my next mood swing. Now I want vegetables and rice, so I buy all kinds of frozen, fresh, and canned vegetables. Then I want pizza, so I buy frozen pizzas. Cereal is next. Toast. Sandwiches. Casseroles. Pastas.

I don't feel like Jesus when I'm home. I felt like Jesus when I was giving away a blanket, since I have more than I need. I was living the Gospel in that moment. How often do I live the Gospel when I'm hungry or at the grocery store? Just before writing this reflection, a resident came to my door highly upset and in need of things I could not offer, something he knew too well. I had no clue what to do. I wanted to embrace him, but I didn't know what he wanted. He was scared for a loved and for some mistakes he made the previous evening. Did I live the Gospel then? And now I sit here, on my new, university-purchase furniture, full on cereal, writing, thinking, and praying, not that I can necessarily delineate between those three occurrences at the moment.

Can I live the Gospel at home? Do I go check on that resident? Do I sit by myself and surf the internet more? Could I do my homework? What if I read my Bible or a novel? Can I socialize and live the Gospel? Can I drink? Eat?

It is easy to live the Gospel in the face of need. A man needs a blanket, so I give him one. Another needs medication and has no chance of getting any help until Monday, so I buy it for him. Easy. But how do I imitate Christ and honor the imago Dei when I'm face-to-face with no one other than myself?

Making Truth Beauty and Beauty Truth: Thoughts Away From the Shelter

In the. city, you see a lot of diversity. In Seattle, I saw people in business suits; in chic jeans and fancy shirts; in tight, tight clothes; people in lots clothes, people wearing barely enough to keep warm; lots of tattoos, lots of piercings, and lots of dyed hair--the "acceptable" kinds and the stick-it-to-the-man, counter-cultural sort. I bought sushi from an Asian woman named Penny who spoke perfect English with an American accent and a vegetarian-style hot dog from an older Russian lady who expected me to know the soundtrack to a "classic S&M" movie.

Cities house diversity.

This (un)sheltered human kept noticing an underside to even this diversity, greatly influenced by the thought of my friends in the shelter. Amidst all this diveristy exists a sameness (indeed, all diversity yields some sameness somewhere, however minute or near-meaningless). The sameness I noticed was privilege. No matter the race, the gender, the style, or the language, the people I described earlier had some level of privilege.

They bought their clothes. They had a home. They chose their hygiene products, even if they had to keep their belts a little tight. And Ifit right in amongst this diversity and privilege.

The city also houses the other side of this privileged diversity: the very poor and the homeless. They drew my gaze, but not because they were the other to my level of privilege, the hungry to my full, the cold to my warm. No, they demanded my gaze because of their beauty.

Sometimes their beauty contrasted starkly with the city's beauty. An intriguing statue of Christopher Columbus stood over the jacket of the homeless man sleeping behind it, beauties of two different kinds, beauties that, perhaps, don't belong together.

I watched a bag lady pushing her cart slowly around town, aimlessly wondering for lack of anything to do, anywhere to go. The lines on her face made her look old, although she may have weathered more years than she's lived.

An old man in the Seattle Center sounded like he was coughing up his lungs as he sat next to his hiking backpack. He sat in the empty chairs of the mostly closed food court. I wonder when he was kicked out, forced into the cold rain.

I passed by a man on the street corner with a sign stating his predicament: a homeless man in need. I was on my way to find the vegetarian hot dogs. I stopped in front of a place that sold cookies for three dollars each. Looking at the cookies, I could only think of that man on the corner. I didn't buy any cookies.

All three of them were beautiful in their own ways. All humans are beautiful, all humans carry the image of God. I think society could benefit from looking away from their own beauty, turning from navel-gazing to gazing upon the beauty of the Other, of all others. When our gaze turns from ourselves, we can appreciate the other's beauty and complement it with our beauty, the beauty of our creative powers to take the beauty of others out of oppression.

And we can take them out of oppression if we can break the bonds of guilt and fear.

Shake off guilt. Replace it with acceptance of what is and a desire to change it. To make truth beauty and beauty truth.

We Ain't Your Family

There is a small man at the shelter who is the same age as my mother. They call him Littl'un. I had the privilege of filling out some paper work with Littl'un one night and we talked a lot.

He never made it to high school and I didn't bother to ask why. He never got his GED, either. The older guys at the shelter don't think there is any use, because "who would hire someone my age?" Littl'un had a job at a local plant, but was part of a number of layoffs. He also got kicked out of the house when his wife found out he had been sleeping around.

Homeless. No job. No wife. Littl'un drinks and I'm not sure I can blame him. The other night he got "permanently evicted" from the shelter because he came in drunk. Had I been there, I might have let him in. When Littl'un came in drunk, he would stumble onto one of the couches and you wouldn't hear anything from him until the morning.

But the shelter has rules for reasons. You never know when a drunk person will become dangerous. This winter night, Littl'un was rightfully told to leave. Since Littl'un and I talked about the incident, I get the feeling Littl'un felt belittled. Supposedly he wasn't even going to stay in the shelter, he was just going to stop in and say he was too drunk to stay in. Who knows if that story is true. I have no reason to disbelieve Littl'un; I think him an honest man. But we all know a drunk man's plans don't always turn out the way he planned. I suspect Littl'un would have tried to stay at the shelter that night. Who knows?

Littl'un told me the nighttime worker put on an attitude and was throwing around his authority. I imagine Littl'un felt the worker was like a bouncer puffing out his chest (and let's remember, these are the interpretations of what I heard from a man telling of a story when he was drunk, reality may be skewed). Feeling offended and cornered (so I interpret), Littl'un said something about kicking the young man's ass. Later that night, Littl'un was placed on the "permanent eviction" list. He cannot enter the normal program again. He cannot even enter the winter-nights program.

I let Littl'un in before I understood the nature of his eviction. I helped Littl'un file a grievance concerning the status of his eviction. I let Littl'un into the shelter on a number of occasions and the other night I noticed a note saying he was not to be let into the shelter. I read that note too late, too.

One night, Littl'un came into the office and told me he was worried about me not going to Maine to be with my family for Christmas. He asked me what I was going to do and I told him I was going to spend the day with him and the rest of the guys. There are two kinds of family, anyways.

I told Littl'un he and the rest of the guys would just have to be my family on Christmas. Enough of the guys in the shelter have family in the area they won't be spending time with for various reasons. But for some reason Littl'un and the gang still see me as different from them, as an other. And I am. I have two jobs, an education, a home, and lots of food. They eat whatever I am given to serve them. Most don't have steady work if any. They are only allowed to get drunk during the day, in public, if they want a place to stay the night.

Littl'un told me, "We ain't your family. We might be your friends, but it isn't the same," or something to that effect. I still get choked up writing about it. He said "friends."

You're alright, Littl'un.

Since writing this piece, I received a call from the ER while at the shelter. The lady from the hospital asked if I had any space for Littl'un that night. I said I was not allowed to let him into the shelter. And for a moment, I was proud that I had followed the rules, the rules that rightly and effectively protect the safety of the men in the shelter. That pride didn't last long. The lady told me she was looking for some place for Littl'un to go, since he told her he had nowhere to go once she released him. He was taken to the ER earlier that day for alcohol poisoning.

I miss you, man. I hope you'll be OK

A High School Senior Enters

The other night an 18-year old checked into the shelter. He was a high school senior. He only had a backpack with him. He recently made some bad decisions, he told, including marijuana, alcohol, and suspension from school. He told me, because his dad told him he needed to start being honest. His dad told him this at some point before kicking him out of the house to teach him a lesson. He said his dad told him he would end up on the streets later in life if he didn't straighten up. The kid only needed a place to sleep for a few nights, so I entered him into the shelter's "Winter Nights" program, which means he could have some amenities and food if we had enough, but he was only there for a warm place to sleep.

I've met some people green around the edges, but this kid was green all the way through. He looked nervous and scared, but not enough to lose his composure, at least not this early in the night.

I explained as much of the program to him as I could. I was as kind to him as I am to everyone else, although I perhaps took extra care with this kid. I wanted him to learn a lesson, because I didn't want him to ever end up on the streets for good, but neither did I want him scarred for life.

He was definitely surprised by a lot of the goings on of homeless people. The shelter closes during the day and he asked me what he was supposed to do during the day. He asked me where the people in the winter nights program sleep when they aren't at the shelter. He asked me questions with pretty obvious answers, but answers outside his realm of experience, answers many people are afraid to ask, because they don't want to know the obvious answers.

One of the younger guys (just 18 or 19 himself) this 18-year old under his wing. He made sure the kid got what he needed and they hung out a lot. I let them chat loudly and longer than I am supposed to, because I wanted to hang out with them. I wanted to counter the things the other gentleman was saying, things encouraging this kid to get out of his father's house. The kid was sent to learn a lesson, but I saw him having fun at the shelter by someone he thought could be his friend and being encouraged to do the things his father didn't want him to do.

I countered what I could, but what really could I do? I could have made them stop talking. Maybe I should have, but I couldn't stand the thought of that kid lying on a lumpy couch in a dark, unfamiliar place, reflecting on his past, present, and future in tearful solitude.

Obviously my imagination had taken off. I didn't know what the kid would do in any situation, since I had only met him a few hours earlier and let him loose in the shelter after filling out paperwork (I had others to attend to, after all). And who was I to take that kid's moral education into my hands that night? I'm certainly no authority on moral education, let alone how to handle any teenager. Still, I had trouble focusing on anything after all the residents went to sleep. I couldn't stop thinking about that kid, wondering how he was doing, considering things I might say to him in the morning. Would I take him aside and debunk the myths he was told last night? Would I continue to be nice to him or purposely ignore him? Would he be OK?

He didn't come in the next night. Or the next. He hasn't been in since. I don't know if he's been with friends, on the streets, in jail, with his family, or alive.

Upon reflection, I'm reminded how self-centered I am. Granted, I have been generally worried about that kid, which is by no means self-centered. But I felt sorry for myself after I left the shelter the next day. I thought of how little work I got done as my attention was given to possible ways to help that kid. I told this story at first because I thought it was a story people needed to hear. Now I wonder if I tell this story because I let it weigh heavy on my heart and mind. Is that why I tell any of these stories? Is all of my storytelling about the storyteller? Perhaps I want people to look at me with their eyebrows curved in slightly as they let out an almost instinctual, pitying "Oh." Maybe I just want praise and attention.

I want them to think about that kid prayerfully, but maybe for me, too.

I didn't realize it at first, but I've been presenting that kid's story completely from my perspective, which is the only way I can tell it. But in doing so, my emotions come out and I implicitly ask people to praise me and feel sorry for me. They praise me for helping out that kid and feel sorry for me as I obviously pretend the weight of others' problems are upon my shoulders.

Or I am projecting: I praise and feel sorry for myself, so I assume others are when I tell them stories.

Last night I thanked a group who donated goods to the shelter. In turn, a few of them thanked me for working at the shelter. I'm no hero. The heroes are the guys living in the shelter, trying to get back on their feet while society sweeps them under the rug, tosses them in a corner, or simply ignores them. They haven't killed themselves and some tell me they don't think about suicide (I have to ask). That's heroic.

I'm no hero. Don't thank me for anything. I have trouble handling knowledge of their suffering and oppression. They live with it daily.

In spite of my fear of projection, of pity and self-pity, of praise and self-praise, I'm not going to stop talking about that kid or any of the other men in that shelter. The shelter purports to be a guiding light in the darkness, trying to give hope and direction. But the shelter is not that light, the men are. They are guiding lights in the darkness. They are angels I get to entertain while fully aware. They are unsung heroes and I must tell their stories, reflecting their light. Whether by intention or not, too many are ignorant of their light and stumble in the darkness. If you cannot or will not see their light, perhaps I can lift my voice, pointing to them. I can only tell their stories as their stories become part of mine. But it is with their light that I can see enough to read my story and tell it to you.

"We tell ourselves stories in order to live."

--Joan Didion

"Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these [...], ye have done it unto me."

--Jesus, according to Matthew's Gospel

"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares."

Hebrews 13:2

A Shelter of Extraordinary Gentleman

No one is normal, because normal doesn't exist. Despite this reality, most of us still have some sort of amorphous idea of normality. So do the men in the shelter.

When I was still working on becoming a volunteer at the shelter, the case manager told me one day how the guys like to visit with volunteers who come into the shelter. They told him they like to talk to normal people. Apparently having a residence is "normal" to some of them.

It should be.

And no, the men in the shelter are not normal by any stretch of the imagination. Neither are they abnormal. Rather, they are extraordinary.

I am continually struck by how the men care for me. It is a missional cliché to say how the ones to whom you attempt to minister become ministers to you. I didn't go to the shelter as any sort of missionary. I just wanted to help and love. In turn, I have, of course, received help and love.

It wasn't right from the beginning, but pretty early on some of the guys started commenting on how I was different from a lot of the workers they've encountered. They started with surprise, asking me why I was there and why I did what I did. Then they lost any shyness when it came to gratitude. More recently, they've stated a desire to do things for me. In the span of one week, two different men said they wanted to do something for me.

Pie Tin

One--a peer of mine--brought me leftovers from a dinner prepared for the homeless, because he knew I was sitting in the shelter waiting to eat. This same man gave me a box of snacks someone gave him, a box of snacks he doesn't like. I suggested he leave the box out for the rest of the men, but he wanted me to have them, because of what I do for him.

And what did I do for him? Stay a little late in the mornings. Come a little early in the evening. Let him watch TV with me. Drive him around town when he needed to file a police report for his stolen scooter.

Yes, I did things for him. He was my friend. I didn't do anything truly special. I treated him like a normal human being and found out he was extraordinary. As of today, he has moved to a different shelter in the area.

Papaw

An older gentleman at the shelter took a real liking to me over the course of our time together. One of the other guys at the shelter told me he is just a loner. He does keep to himself a bit. He obviously can fend for himself. But he isn't antisocial, either. He was often a little grumpy, but no more than should be expected of an older man who has been homeless for a while.

It didn't take long for him to warm up to me. We aren't the closest of friends, but our relationship is what can be expected of two men with an age difference of 30 or more years. He isn't about to watch Futurama or Family Guy in the office with me, but we still shoot the bull some.

He constantly expresses gratitude, praising me much more than I deserve. Recently he said, "I don't know how I'm ever going to repay you."

He said it as I was walking out the door and I didn't stop, since I didn't really know how to respond. I thought about what he said while outside and I had one of the moments where I fought the tears. I don't want to know how the guys will react if I cry in front of them.

When I came back inside, he hadn't gone far, so I responded to him. I don't remember exactly what I said, something pithy, I'm sure. "You don't need to do anything to repay," probably. I'm sure my tone communicated more than my words, but still reflected how I was struck dumbfound, although the shock-and-awe revealed truth, too. My tone said, "I never expected anything. Just being here is reward enough. I won't thank you for being in the shelter--I wish you were not here--but I thank you for letting me come." At least, I hope that is what my tone said.

Man Up, Christian!

Over the course of my stay at the shelter, three different men talked to me about how I looked.

The first was a man on the younger side of being middle-aged. He isn't shy about his Christianity. Knowing I was a Christian, he came up to me one day, pointed at his eyebrow and asked, "What's this?" I smiled and stated the obvious. "I have my ears and eyebrow pierced." He said something about what people will think about me when they see those and what the Bible says. He didn't let me finish responding, ensuring me he was concerned as a Christian brother and because he like me. I thanked him and assured him I was not offended by our difference in opinion.

Littl'un took a fatherly role when he commented on my piercings. He told me I need to look like a man and get the metal out of my face. I couldn't help but laugh. I laughed at the difference in opinion and the joy of receiving his care. I broke some rules for that man, some while he was sober and a few others while he wasn't. It meant the world to that man. You'll hear more about Littl'un another time, as he is one of my favorites. I haven't seen him since Christmas. I hope everything is OK.

The third man commented on my piercings pretty early on. He came in one day and pointed at his ears, which sported two hoops in each ear. He told me he saw my piercings and recently shoved his earrings back through his holes. He looked and sounded so proud to tell me. I can see his face right now and I am still elated to think about it.

===

Every man in the shelter is different and each one is in the shelter for a slightly different reason. Don't expect any of them to fit any homeless stereotype you've ever heard. If you try to fit any of them into such a mold, I will probably react negatively. I'll try to stay calm, but no promises.

They are extraordinary men and I can't help but be fond of each and every one of them.

If God is love, then I bring God to the shelter and God finds me there.

An Overview of My Place at the Shelter

As an introduction, let me explain my position at the shelter. The shelter I work at is a men's shelter. Across the street is the women's shelter, a place for homeless women and a sanctuary for victims of domestic violence. The women's shelter is open 24 hours/day, as a refuge for female victims of domestic violence.

The men's shelter is not such a haven and is understaffed as far as volunteers and employees go. The men's shelter is open from 7pm-8am, kept open by paid employees. On Friday mornings, the shelter is open from 8am-12noon, thanks to our volunteer. That is volunteer in the singular.

When any of the employees arrive at 7pm, most of the men are already waiting outside. They are allowed to wait outside the shelter as early as 6:45pm, any earlier and they are trespassing. I've been told most of the employees make the men wait outside until he turns of the alarm and is situated, ready for the men to come in.

It is often best, professionally, to take that minute or so to get ready. One day it just got too cold for me to make the men wait on me and one of the men told me, "You're a good man, Trevar. None of the other guys let us do this." I don't know what the other employees do. Maybe the other employees do what I do and maybe they don't. Maybe their idea of "too cold" is colder than mine (I am known for being quite intolerant of the cold). The smallest gesture can mean so much.

So the men enter the empty shelter and sign in. Sometimes I will write down their name and the time they entered. Other times I'll have them write it down. We have a metal-detecting wand to make sure they aren't bringing in any weapons. Apparently I was known for how I used the wand. One guy told me I never move the wand up far enough on the torso. He told me this after confessing and handing me a set of brass knuckles he brought into the shelter.

At this time, the employee conducts an interview with any newcomers to "verify" homelessness and take information that may or may not be shared with the Carolina Homelessness Information Network (CHIN), depending on the man's wishes. Whether or not we share the information, we still fill out the paperwork. I guess the paperwork is partly for our records and partly for our deal to get funding. I'm not completely positive, but that's what I was told, and so it is the story I tell. I love conducting these interviews, because I learn a lot about the men during this time. I close the office door, give them my attention, and let them tell stories if they so choose. And a lot of them do.

We get to fill out this paperwork a lot. Our shelter's program allows any homeless man to stay for up to 90 days before being exited for two weeks. After that two-week exit, he can stay a second time for 60 days. After another two-week exit, he can stay for 30 days. After the third stay, his time is up for the year unless the weather is cold and he enters our Winter Nights program, which allows any homeless person to use the shelter during cold (below 35ºF) and inclement weather (snow, ice, etc).

Out Winter Nights program is open to men during their two-week exit and after their third stay in the program. Men staying for Winter Nights sleep on couches and cots, not beds. They get leftovers, not the (supposed to be, but not always) hot food we serve. They are not allowed to use our laundry facilities, they are asked to shower at night instead of in the morning, and they do not benefit from case management and the vouchers we receive from places like the Salvation Army (normally). Winter Nights starts at 9pm, not 7pm, unless the weather is really rough. And unlike our normal program, a man on the Winter Nights program does not have to come in nightly, whereas our 30-60-90 program has a curfew. At least, this is my understanding.

Once the guys are in, they often come by to get things. We hand out hygiene products and cleaning products. Sadly, if the employees didn't keep these items under lock-and-key, there wouldn't be enough to go around. Some men wouldn't take a lot, but there are some guys who will take whatever they can get their hands on. I'm continually surprised at the things stolen in the shelter, from rolls of toilet paper to instant coffee.

Before 8pm, the women's shelter has provided food for me to pick up and serve the men. The women make the food because the men do not have a kitchen, not because of some outdated gender roles. When I first started working at the shelter, I was told to serve the food, to ensure there is enough to go around. During the holiday season, we have always had more than enough to eat In fact, I have seen a regretful amount of food go to waste, because the food is not eaten. Perhaps this bounty will change when the season changes and people forget to be charitable.

I don't clean up after the men. They are all assigned chores, every one of them responsible for a part of the community. Sometimes I have to ensure the chores get done and done well, but the majority of the men are quite responsible. The only other responsibilities for the employee are to keep the peace, distribute medicine to those who have it, turn the lights off, enforce quiet hours, and turn on the alarm.

The employee spends a lot of time sitting in the office. We have cameras in the shelter and I'll watch what people are doing from time to time. I'll walk around to visit some. I've found I don't have to do much walking around, though. If I keep the office door open, the men will come to visit me.

Wake up is 6am. Breakfast is seldom hot, since I don't do so well cooking sausage and I don't know a thing about cooking grits and livermush. When we have it, I'll make eggs, but I'm not very good at cooking for so many people at once. And the kitchen at the women's shelter isn't the easiest for cooking. Half of the burners don't work and all of the teflon pans are badly scratched. Every time I cook there, I'm afraid of setting off the fire alarm.

Check out is generally at 8am and morning chores need to be done 15 minutes before checkout. One of the employees makes the men check out earlier. He must have another job or something. Other employees will stay later when the weather is rough. I've been staying later when possible, simply because of the cold. A lot of the men have things to do during the day and less than half stick around past 9 or 10. Any employee who stays past 8 am becomes a volunteer.

Both shelters are named after guiding lights for vessels on the water. I suppose the shelters are meant to serve as a place the homeless can find and will help guide them to safety. After a month at the shelter, I realized it isn't the shelter that serves that purpose in my life. It is the men. They are the guiding light.

(Un)Sheltered Theology

In November, I started working at a local homeless shelter. Since the first day at the shelter, I've heard stories and had experiences that beg to be told. They warrant telling because they are the gospel in a way I've never known before.

These stories are not the stories of others, although the stories of others are intertwined here. Sometimes you will read the stories of others as seen through my eyes and reflected upon by me, as that is all I can give you of the men. What follows are my stories and my reflections. I am not trying to tell their stories here, except where their stories merit telling for the gospel's sake. And even then, the story is still mine. If you want to hear the voices of the voiceless--voices taken away by society--you'll have to look elsewhere.

And the stories told here are yours, too. When you read, my story intertwines with yours, whether you like it or not and whether you agree with my reflections or not. If you react against my reflections, your reaction to me is now part of your story. If you choose to read any of these stories, the longs ones and/or the short ones, you are reading their story, my story, and your story all mixed into one. Separable, but inseparable. What is theirs is mine, is yours. What is yours is mine, is theirs.

Should you choose to read, you are becoming one with me and them, casting off the us/them alterity set up in a capitalistic society where the homeless are without home and place. They have no home in the land and no place in society. You will find yourself swept under the rug of culture and you will think of the men when you rest your head in your home.

You will also read the gospel here. At times, my reflections may raise theological red flags. I may not always sound "Christian" in the traditional sense. I find myself becoming "Christian" in a way I never knew possible and my words reflect this journey. Perhaps these stories reflect a Christianity not everyone needs to know, but it is a way I have long yearned to experience. Theology from the shelter isn't the safe, sheltered theology I once knew, a theology that didn't think much about the shelter--the building, the men inside it, the men outside it, and marginalized people in general.

Should you choose to read any of my stories--their stories, your stories--you will also read Christ's story, God's story, the story of Israel, and the story of the Church. You will read the story of humanity: the gospel, the mystery of Immanuel and theodicy--God with us, a God who is love in the midst of a reality of pain and suffering.

It won't always be easy to read. These stories have stolen tears of joy and sorrow from. All my reflections are bittersweet. Be prepare to feel, but don't feel guilty. Feel sad and cry. Laugh and feel joy. Let the Spirit breathe on you, inspiring you to new life and rebirth. Be invigorated and move from these words to action and reflection, but feel no guilt. Perhaps I will write a reflection on how I have handled and reacted against guilt in my new experiences.

I am not going to use real names, not even the name of the shelter, to respect the men in the shelter and to protect my job. These texts may break the confidentiality agreement I signed when I took the job. I hope my supervisors, the men at the shelter, and God can forgive me for any breaches of trust I might be committing. But I feel the call of the gospel so strong in this venture.

I don't plan to do too much other censoring, because I want to present you with what I hear. Neither do I go out of my way to use cuss words. I have already written a number of reflections and I not only refer to what I affectionately call "the F-bomb," but I also type the word in quoting what the men say, or, in one instance thus far, what I said in order to build some rapport and cultivate pathos. That use of the F-bomb was single-handedly my best use of that word ever. You should have seen the smile on the man's face when I said it. I know many people would not approve of my using the word, but I am not asking you to agree with me, although I hope you endure it for the sake of hearing a retelling of the gospel. As the shelter does not put up with the use of racial slurs, I have not heard but one such slur while in the shelter and it is not in any of my stories.