***This is written by Kelly, who interned with us this year, spending most of her time with our friends on the streets.***
Would Jesus Germ-X?
Last Wednesday night when my sister and I got in the car after the meal sharing at Pershing Park, we had a little squabble. This is a pretty normal occurrence for us when we disagree about something.
Wednesday’s topic: hand sanitizer.
The source of our argument: would Jesus put hand sanitizer on his hands immediately following a visit to Pershing Park? (or) should modern conveniences like Germ-X be wisely used to kill germs on the hands of those who literally “reach out to the homeless?”
I was torn. Really. You see, I have this little thing that decided to sprout on the palm of my left hand a couple weeks ago. The thing is barely noticeable and is mostly gone now, but it is slightly red and has a circular indentation around it. I didn’t think much of it at the time.
When we started driving away, Sarah immediately offered me the hand sanitizer. “No thank you,” I replied, probably a little smugly. But then she began to describe something on the palm of her right hand identical to the thing I have.
Eww. At least we have the same friends.
At this point I was mostly still annoyed that she was so quick to pull out the sanitizer. It was literally the first thing she did. Mostly, it was the symbolic meaning behind immediately pulling out the Germ-X while driving out of the parking lot that eats at me. It is as if to say “I now cleanse myself of all things unclean, especially those homeless people over there.” I understand: Sarah is a future healthcare professional, and no one wants weird germs on their hands. But still.
Then I realized that internally, often unconsciously, I have been struggling though this way of thinking in my time here this summer. How often do I try to wipe my hands clean of those I am trying to minister to? Then I realized that for much of my life, I have tried to keep enough distance from those with “big” problems to feel safe from their mess. I have been pretty prideful and elitist for quite some time actually.
In public school, I steered clear of those who partied too much or didn’t seem like they were doing much with their lives. Then I went to Biola and was instantly surrounded with a bunch of Christians who met my criteria for friendship. At about the end of sophomore year and beginning of junior, things changed. God began working on the ugly pride in my heart. Different friends started wanting to have one-on-one conversations with me and talk. Really talk. I found that as others began to open up to me, I began to be open with others. Vulnerability, honesty, authenticity—some of the most painful and awkward things I aim toward in my relationships. Through this process I began the ongoing process of uncovering my sins, my doubts, my fears, my hopes, my struggles. I began to see that every person is very complex and beautiful.
On Sunday afternoons, between fifteen and thirty people meet in a loft on State Street to talk about God and be vulnerable with each other. We call it Holy Chaos—where the divine meets the raw mess we call reality. Though many in the group lack permanent housing or struggle through substance addictions, every week I leave with the knowledge of shared insufficiencies and shared grace. It is a place of holy ground, where all are equal before God and each other. I have been exceedingly blessed to experience the love of this group this summer.
One Sunday, one brother with a deep love for Scriptures and a faithful walk with the Lord shared about his experiences at another church on Sunday mornings. I wanted to cry as he shared that no one gives him a hug on Sunday because they know he lives out of his car. He said he didn’t understand, because he keeps himself really clean, but somehow everyone else gets hugs except him.
The next Sunday I gave this brother a hug.
He didn’t smell bad. He didn’t have lice. Even if he did, I would hug him anyway.
This and stories like it magnified an area that I long to see changed in the church—the need for love and authenticity. People are so afraid to share of themselves with others—whether that be through hugs, conversations, or meals.
Maybe we are scared that if others really knew our situation, they wouldn’t give us a hug either. We let God forgive our sins but not our brothers. Unfortunately when you are homeless, you don’t always get the luxury of hiding your shortcomings.
Then I began to ask myself if this desire to be safe manifests itself in how I have thought about ministry for so long. I am so grateful for those who work to provide services to those displaying need. However, I can’t help but wonder if serving sometimes gets in the way of loving. These things aren’t meant to be separated but somehow seem to have gotten that way. If serving is not understood in the context of relationship, then our deepest need for a sense of belonging does not get met. We each desire communion with one another, our communities, and with God. All this becomes slightly difficult though, because friendship can only happen between equals.
I realized the important difference between providing only services and offering friendship because of the marked difference between volunteering at Casa Esperanza and showing up at Pershing Park each week this summer. At Casa, the help was sometimes appreciated but impersonal nonetheless. In contrast, one week when I was leaving Pershing Park a friend deeply thanked me for just coming to hang out. I also find the time at Pershing more fulfilling because I have come to feel welcome, like I belong too. Every time I am given more than I give.
In friendship we begin to see how we are all alike and different. Its beautiful! At the beginning of this summer, I wasn’t quite sure how I would find much common ground with my new friends in need of homes. It wasn’t nearly as hard as I thought, though. The first couple weeks were a lot of fun! But as I am beginning to get to know these friends more and understand the reality of their situations, the problems begin to weigh on me. I think that this too is part of loving others, loving equals.
I’m slowly realizing that fear, not love, has been preventing me from engaging friendship with those who are too “messy” for me to understand. Fear that a person’s problems will weigh on me too heavily. Fear that being seen with that person will ruin my reputation. Fear that if someone opens up to me, then my secrets might come out too.
As I think about the looks of disgust and hate I have received this summer when I stop to talk with homeless friends, I wonder how much fear was really behind those glares. Fear of not enough for them, of an unattractive city, that “they” might move to their neighborhood next?
Then I wondered if this fear tries to run our churches too. I know it does. It is fear that creates an environment where pastors run away with their secretaries, where people quietly live out their secret hells with no one to talk to, where nothing gets addressed because no one wants to deal with it.
But where love is found in its wholeness, fear is so afraid that he bitterly skulks away.
Jesus doesn’t Germ-X away the messy, gross, unsightly chaos of existence, because he isn’t afraid of it. Instead, he enters into it, becomes it, redeems it. God, fully human, touched lepers and cripples. He ate with ugly prostitutes carrying STD’s. A man sit at his feet who was just running around graves filled with rotting corpses. God’s favor comes to those who are blind, lame, prisoners, poor, addicted, and homeless, because God is not afraid to come meet them in their mess.
This is the mystery of Incarnation.
Sometimes the books come back to us; sometimes they don’t. But the kids keep coming. We’ve had several girls come in just to draw on blank pieces of paper, in a quiet place where they feel welcome. On the library wall, colorful block letters read: “A Place Where You Belong.” And as much as I want the kids to be reading (and returning) their books, giving them a place to belong is the real purpose. I think that’s been the goal of this summer, in ways that extend far beyond the library.
***
