I gave notice that I wanted to use tonight to write. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately that needs to get down on paper but I guess I’m just afraid to put it down. I crawled up into bed for a little nap for a half hour and my wife couldn’t wake me for like two hours. I don’t know what’s going on. I need to make it a matter of prayer. It only takes a moment to lift my heart to the Lord. What I find myself doing instead is looking for distractions. But this nagging won’t go away. I’ve got to turn to God now.
Every week my dad writes a letter and topical Bible study. I’ve been enjoying these for years. He is a preacher, pastor, teacher, paralegal, private investigator, social activist, but most of all a student of the Bible. Check it out.
http://www.larryriceministries.org/topical_studies.htm
[Guest Post by Jeremy Nicholls of CCO]
Part 1: shocking news devastates a community
Heads hang as the news echoes through the ears of dozens of the Macon men, and quickly it filters into the Uptown homeless community. “We’re closing ….. Can’t be true ….. Can it? …… Why us? …… We can’t believe it!” The reality of our men’s program closing left many, if not all of them, despondent and feeling dejected. Grown, proud, street toughened guys were breaking down in tears. Triggered by fear, others gazed with blank stares. Trauma filled folk somberly prepare to take another blow by suppressing more emotion. Anger begins to slowly erupt as the news sinks in.
Already despised, snarled upon and rejected from nearly every facet of society, this news was another brutal kick to a man already down. The “powers that be” had listened to and heard the relentless pleas from a very fearful and merciless exclusive club. This group represented a relatively small number of people determined to promote hatred, fear and deception by painting negative pictures like violent ex-offenders living near innocent children. Nothing was investigated and propaganda had been used as a powerful tool, and the result was “no more funding!”
We, the workers in this flourishing harvest, were also flooded by an overflow of emotion and tears. Ironically and sadly, friends and foes, celebrated the impending closing, yet we cried to God, despised the political schemes and tried to be strong in the diversity. We fought against becoming bitter as we saw the suffering of “the least of these”. We had wept when they wept, suffered in their suffering, but we had also laughed and prayed together. As workers in the harvest, we consoled one another, knowing we needed to love our enemies, despite seeing the ugly reality of people rejoicing in the fact of an empty cafeteria and a bunch of displaced single guys.
The city agency came, picked them up and transported over half of these tired men to another shelter just around the corner. Some were housed, some were left in transient locations and a small minority, like Nick, ended up lying under Chicago’s hazy stars or roughing many nights trying to sleep on the “red line” train. Great promises had been made (especially to our many veterans) by a very elegant and pervasive speaker, and it sadly proved to be a lie, as almost all of the men were still without a permanent place to call home. Cornerstone’s normally noisy, chaotic and hectic cafeteria which nightly housed around hundred homeless men, was hit with a ghastly screaming silence.
The words of emotionally charged individuals summed up the tension and fears that resounded through them all: “We guys are already the rejected, the dejected, the hated and despised. We are feared. We are the bottom of the barrel. People fear us, but they don’t know us, they don’t talk to us, see us as human beings, as husbands, fathers, sons and grandfathers. You gave us that. You spoke to us as human beings. As a friend who loves us. You gave us hope. Hope in God, hope in Jesus, hope in love, in community, in friendship and in family. You helped us believe we can do and be something – get a job, live drug-free and find stable housing. Man – we need you guys and you’re all some of us have.”
The words, the fear and the emotion seen in these men added to the voice echoing in my head. “YOU WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN!” God will never forget or forsake these men, and neither must we! Jesus gave me a mission to keep in contact, uplift, encourage, and share our love with these men and to be a voice for these voiceless souls.
Politics, money and fear had worked very powerfully, so in our mourning and weakness, we grasped the only thing we could; God through the power of prayer. We prayed a prayer embracing these men. We prayed that the three year journey would not be over. We prayed for doors to open. We prayed for a miracle. We simply prayed.
As we mourned the loss, it became essential to cling to the vision of hope. It resounded clearly within my spirit to outreach these men, not forget them and offer them a sprinkle of hope. Scott and I threw ideas back and forth, prayed and knew we needed to take a leap of faith. The emptiness needed to be filled, hopelessness needed to experience hope and the unloved needed love!
One day I decided to test the waters, so I wandered out onto Broadway and within an hour I was met with a threat and was cussed out by two different people. I was discouraged! In prayer, I realized it was the devil trying to stop me from walking out this calling, and though tempted to grasp the comfortable and give in, I knew what I must do deep within my being. Backing down was not an option and the Spirit said jump, so we jumped into the unknown world of outreach.
“Bringing Home the Macon” started as Scott and I left the lonely cafeteria one day and wandered the busy streets of Uptown to start fulfilling this mission. The commissioner’s speech of hope had proved only to be words of false hope and deception. The promise came true to very few. We visited these men on street corners, in various shelters, in their permanent or transient homes, under the trees, in the hospitals, libraries and wherever we could find them. We found nearly all of these men and were greeted by an overflow of hugs, handshakes and the gentle friendly exchange of fist to fist. Never again have I received the verbally violent reaction of that first day. Despite the worsening of their situations for almost everyone, they loved seeing our faces. We began offering these men glimpses of light in this world of darkness and deception.
The bitter reality of incarceration was ever-present since the conception of the men’s programs. Parolee after parolee had been released to our doorstep. Ex-offenders had been set free, but they now had no option but to live in a homeless existence. We had accepted them with open arms as our neighbors and with dignity, but when we closed, our high proportion of parolees ended up being offered very few services and housing was not even an option. When “Bringing Home the Macon” began it’s follow-up and outreach we discovered, that through our constant searching and listening ears, too many of our gentlemen were winding up back behind cold steel bars. Sadly, among these men, the recidivism rate was increasing at a rapid pace as the little stability we’d offered had vanished.
Digest this utterly false statement: “We’ve served our time and have been set free to live as a productive member of society.” Once a person is greeted into the cold angry cells of shame, that person’s rights are vanquished and they become a lifelong slave to societal fears, hypocrisy and prejudice. Guilty for life has been tattooed upon the foreheads of ex-offenders. The first strike law of public housing, mandatory minimum sentences, parole, the internet and the easy availability of criminal background checks have placed huge X’s upon every felon’s back. Sadly, the result is that housing and employment have been made virtually impossible. Thus, an endless cycle of grief and recidivism begins, and within that context, the lost sheep need to hear the Lord’s message of love, grace, restorative justice and hope.
The number of individuals we knew (and now know) incarcerated, on probation, parole and with felonies is astounding. Bringing Home the Macon added a new dimension, knowing and feeling God’s leading we dedicated ourselves to attending meetings, and to writing and visiting specific prisoners. Darrell had joined the team and the letters and cards served to offer hope and bless these guys as they fought for their own dignity and survival.
The pain and grief had embraced us, and we felt the Lord had specifically charged us to embrace these men. Contacts had been kept and relationships strengthened as we tried to live out our callings. Though, our knowledge and resources were small, we prayed and leapt in faith, by-passed the negativity and hunted the men down to proclaim the love of Jesus and let them know they were not forgotten. We had no idea where this path would lead; our requirement was to simply walk along it in faith, love and prayer.
Despite the dejection, we had tried not to fall into grief. Despite the rejection, we battled the demons of hatred and despite the negativity, we tried to stay positive and keep our focus on the Lord. It seemed to us that Macon’s Overnight Ministries had taken us many steps forward in the right direction, but only to slip back down seemed wrong, so with a stubborn determination we grasped any glimmer of hope we could. I strongly believed the story was not over, but I could see no visible light at the end of the tunnel. I had cling onto what little faith I had and believe He had not forgotten these men and also believe that Jesus still had a plan for me and my co-workers. We cried and prayed simple prayers of desperation!
Knowing “Bringing Home the Macon” could not be my full-time position; I transitioned to also become a caseworker of the families in the Sylvia Center. Through trial and error, I tried to juggle both positions, by venturing out on certain days, writing letters to prisoners at specific times and learning how to case work the families through it all. Familial casework tends to have an entrenching power, so it began to dominate my schedule. In many ways, it felt like I was abandoning the men, but I believe the Lord was preparing me and teaching me valuable lessons. Becoming a case manager quickly taught me to observe and assess the clientele, and from there; find resources and set all important goals. In other words; I was forming relationships that were more result orientated and had a specific direction.
There were many twists and turns from late 2004 until the present day. I was frequently given different programs to run, responsibilities and things to focus on. I would be wandering down one road only to find myself on another, yet each road had its own identity and lessons to be learned. Though, at times, challenging, confusing and difficult, the trip has been an exciting adventure. Though, at times, opposition arose and there were people who scoffed in my face telling me how evil the men were and how glad they were they were gone, I did my best to grasp a little faith and believe in the faithfulness of God. And there were times when God gave me glimpses of hope when the door seemed fastened shut.
As I look back, I can see God’s hand directing the path. In the middle of 2006, Dee and I were asked to run an outreach program for homeless families and individuals. It gave me an opportunity to venture out to the neighboring shelters and uninhabitable locations where people slept to outreach homeless men and women. Many of the guys I encountered were once housed by us. It was called the “Interim Housing Outreach Program” where the main objective was to find the clients more stable housing. IHOP had an added benefit; it formed a coalition with the Emergency Fund and we became a partner agency, which allowed us to help people financially with their security deposit or first month’s rent. Statistically, it was a very successful program, where a good percentage of the clients got permanent housing or were placed into interim housing. Unfortunately, the IHOP grant lasted only one year, yet we are still blessed with the Emergency Fund till this day.
Needs arose again and in some bitterly cold days of early 2007, we were asked to assist in the housing of some older and disabled men that could easily perish that harsh Chicago winter. We took in ten! A few months later, the local Salvation Army was sadly forced to close their overnight shelter and because of the frailty of some of the older residents, the city asked us to help and we increased our numbers to twenty five. Ironically, that was the same shelter that the majority of our men were transferred to in 2004. As 2007 neared its end and the temperatures continued to drop, we decided out of necessity and for the sake of people’s safety to increase our capacity to thirty five. I had been given the responsibility to watch over and casework these gentlemen.
Essential linkages were being made with other agencies, as we worked together for the betterment of the people we served. Outreach workers started coming and working with us. We formed strong connections and started fighting together for these voiceless souls. We were also going to meetings and gaining knowledge as we addressed issues regarding the bondage of a homeless existence. Coincidently, through these connections, we were learning and being trained to respond to and deal with very delicate issues; such as mental illness, medical conditions, imprisonment and addictions. This was in no way planned! We just continued to venture down this bizarre path and simply followed the unscripted directions. I did not have a clue where the path was taking us (or me), all I knew was this; I just needed to walk this exciting and mysterious adventure, as it seemed to glisten with a divine purpose and meaning. With a touch of faith, my job was to simply wander the mysterious roads of this bizarre journey.
Through all this, the men from Macon’s Overnight Ministries would come around seeking services. On the street, I would repeatedly bump into guys who had received letters from us while serving time, and they would flood me with emotion and hugs. Sadly, we were often all they had during their isolating time of incarceration. A walk in the neighborhood was never peaceful, as it always seemed to result in various forms of witnessing, prayers, laughter, gripes, outreach and casework. I was never alone!
2008 saw the final closing of the Salvation Army’s day time program. I was also attending meetings, trying to protect the Epworth Men’s Overnight Shelter from closing their vital doors. Because it’s easier to discriminate against homeless single men and use fear tactics against them by painting pictures of evil violent men, various groups were straining to push them out of the neighborhood. In a positive stance; activists rose, met, devised plans and fought for the oppressed. Some of us attended meetings and tried to be a voice for the voiceless, while still being a voice with the voiceless. Along with 2008’s huge State wide budget cuts, I was grieving for these men, as the Uptown services were getting very scarce. I feared for men’s safety!
The future looked bleak and the Chicago weather was getting far worse, but I was heading to New Zealand to visit my family, so there was only one thing I could do: In an act of faith, clinging onto hope, I needed to simply cry in desperation to God who loves and cherishes “the least of these”. It was all I could do!
While in New Zealand, we discovered that the Epworth Men’s Shelter would now be run by Cornerstone. What a shock and turn of events! Epworth Church wanted to continue offering services to the 65 men, but because of an ongoing conflict, they wanted a different agency to run it. With an ironic twist, the city agency which cancelled our funding in 2004, asked our director, if Cornerstone could take over the program. Seeing the desperate need in a freezing January, Sandy, our executive director, simply agreed!
I was not around for the birth of this new program, but a lot of effort and hours went into establishing it. The response may have been the simple word;”yes”, but Sandy rallied the troops into action and tackled every obstacle. Epworth United Methodist Church is located about a mile north of our Clifton location. Lined in three rows, the men sleep on thin blue mattresses of the gymnasium floor. Though it may be an uncomfortable night’s rest, we do our best to meet the needs of our 65 homeless men. It was also imperative to sustain peace with the “Gym’s” surrounding neighbors. The transition was relatively smooth as we basically used the same staff and model as the previous administration.
The weather was freezing and the gym was only open during the overnight hours. So questions arose; where could the men be during the day and where could they eat? It took another leap of faith to accept this responsibility. Miraculously a space became available in one of our Clifton buildings, allowing the men to escape the cold, attend classes and receive casework. “Jireh House” was designed to be its namesake: “a provider”; a safe place to rest weary bones, escape the chaotic streets and experience the beautiful reality of the homeless community. The men received added bonuses; three hot meals a day from the CCO cafeteria, access to the clothing free-store and some much needed case-management.
It was a bittersweet experience for me. Sandy had communicated to me that supervising these programs and case-working these men would be my new assignment. I was thoroughly enjoying a wonderful holiday with family and friends in New Zealand, but I was missing out on the induction of this new program. I had grieved and been angered by Macon’s closing in 2004; I had lost what little faith I had in the establishment, I had spent many hours weeping and questioning God as to how and why this happened. In my desperation, I found myself clinging to an ounce of faith, trying to grip that mustard seed and our faithful Lord suddenly moved a mountain while I was ironically relaxing in New Zealand, soaking in the hot January sun.
Upon returning, I knew a slow gradual return did not enter into the equation, I needed to immediately jump into the deep end and that’s what I did. My time was preoccupied by trying to understand and fine-tune our new programs, getting acquainted with new staff, mingling with and case-managing our new male clientele and, of course, reuniting with the many old faces I recognized from our Macon shelter experience. It was a blessing and an honor to be able to hug, shake hands and exchange friendly fists with these men I had known for years, but also a subtle tragedy to see so many still struggling with the bondage of being homeless. Naturally, this dilemma of chronic homelessness had become our dilemma and we continue to utilize all available resources to overcome the obstacles.
I will not elaborate on the many details of the programs, but I’ll summarize in saying that since March there have been many ups and downs, stressful and mellow times and periods of celebration and grief. All this is just the natural progression of running a men’s shelter and dealing with multiple people who occupy many different personalities, addictions, struggles, traumas, medical needs, mental illnesses and so forth. My mission as a case-worker and outreach worker is to simply absorb all this, assess the needs, live among and with our homeless friends and provide whatever support we can. In our little concrete jungle, our mission is to bring the compassion of Jesus while trying to live and love like Him!
This narration isn’t about me trying to fulfill my mission and loving the unlovable. It isn’t about us trying to represent Jesus to the masses and follow his example. It isn’t about us trying to become a voice for the voiceless and advocating for poverty stricken folks. It isn’t about me trying to display the evil forces that despise us and plead for our non-existence. In actuality, a little of all this happened, but that is not why I am writing this piece. This is, in fact, a beautiful love story; a story of God neither forsaking nor forgetting his precious children. This is a story of God loving and cherishing the “least of these”. This is a story of God nullifying the imposing forces of the “powers that be” and the people of influence that utilize propaganda and hatred to try and stop His work. This is simply a story of God’s faithfulness and love.
By opening a men’s shelter in 2001, we were called to walk along a difficult narrow path, which is mysterious and unpredictable. By faith, this narrow path should always be accompanied by the unexplainable and unspeakable joy spoken of in God’s Word. In 2001, God opened a surprising door and, with obedience, we tentatively walked through it. In 2004, God allowed that door to be shut, and in our carnal minds we almost gave in by believing the door was locked and the key was thrown away. Trying to cling onto a dim light of hope, we followed a bizarre, haphazard and narrow way where God opened and closed various doors until 2009; we were then shown that the previously shut door was now open, and with joy, obedience, intrigue and faith, we nervously wandered through.
We mustn’t forget that the journey and the other doors were formatted by our Heavenly Father who had a plan. It wasn’t a cruel joke from a sadistic god, but a compassionate scheme from a loving God. Looking back, the years of exile were incredibly profitable, as they served to prepare, train and strengthen us for the present tasks. We became better equipped to deal with the multiple issues of the homeless men we’d come to love dearly. It gave us direction, increased our faith, gave us hope, sparked us with new found courage and, most importantly, we were outpoured with greater love for both God and neighbor!
Conclusion: hope is walking through the door that beckons the future
But, the story (God’s love story for His children; the least of these) is not over. The journey is not over, as many more doors will be opened and closed. New possibilities arise daily because of the needs of the homeless society in desperate times. We, regrettably, turn away 30 men a day because of lack of space and the chronically homeless continue to sleep on loading docks, behind stores, in the parks, ride the “El” and a variety of uninhabitable places. Today, as the winter dawns and these extremely vulnerable homeless men and women prepare for the big freeze, we pray for their safety. Countless scenarios arise, Jesus knocks on the door of our heart and whispers “are you ready for a new opening, will you take that leap in faith and do you have the courage to walk through it?” The fight is to simply live by faith and to walk through the door opened for us. The fight is to courageously obey and keep hope alive throughout all the sudden changes that will continue to happen. The fight is to “love our neighbors as ourselves”, and our neighbors are the people who come through our doors and the folks we are called to serve.
The beautiful reality is that God did not forget the dejected, but continues to love and cherish America’s “least of these.” All praise to Our Faithful Father who never leaves us nor forsakes us and keeps opening new doors of possibility! Thank you Jesus!
Now reading Frank Burch Brown’s book, Good Taste, Bad Taste, and Christian Taste. How can we appreciate art and let it enhance worship without it taking over? On the other side, how can our tastes be shaped by our discipleship? Calvin Institute of Christian Worship has a resource page him.
Reconcilers tells the story of Max Cisneros, who finds strangers on their journey of death in the borderland deserts between Mexico and the US. This is a story worth checking out.
DW horstkoetter has a post on “Why I am NOT an Evangelical” that has some good points on conversion. To me that’s a very old debate. For me it’s not a question of names or allegiances but rather who will I not call my brother or sister in Christ? I have some friends who are die hard King James Version only believers. They’re odd by Evangelical standards, but I love them. I have other friends who would say I’m in sin for listening to Billy Joe Shaver. I’m a big fan of Billy Joe Shaver who sings:
If You Don’t Love Jesus Go to Hell/If You Don’t Love Jesus Go to Hell/take your rotten rags of righteousness and stuff them up yourself/if you don’t love Jesus go to hell/ain’t no way to cover up your sin/you wolves in sheeps clothing won’t get in/if you’re free as a breeze or locked up in a cell/if you don’t love jesus go to hell/if you think that you can kick my ass/better move your foot mighty fast/i got holy ghost power and i’ll really ring your bell/if you don’t love Jesus go to hell
Now Billy is Kinky Friedman’s spiritual advisor. I don’t know how that works out, but hey, who wants to question their salvation?
This year I started on a personal journey through American literature, trying to understand people who are not like me, people with different journeys, because they are of different races, different socioeconomic backgrounds, all of whom have something important to teach. I’ve listened to these books, so essentially someone has read them to me. Here are the titles:
“Black Elk Speaks” by Nicholas Black Elk as told to John Neihardt.
“A Place on Earth” by Wendell Berry
“The Invisible Man” by Ralph Ellison
“Native Son” and “Black Boy” by Richard Wright
“Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories” by Sandra Cisneros.
“The Jungle” by Upton Sinclair
“The Good Earth” by Pearl S. Buck
These books have taken me places and taught me things that I’ll never forget. As a twenty-first century American white male, a thirty something happily married father in a good job, a safe place, raising sassy comfortable children I can honestly say that I’m in a very privileged position. Granted, I make very little annually and I’m not insured, but I’ve got it pretty good compared to what’s described in these books. And yet these writers have a noble wisdom, a strength about them, a blessing that, in hearing makes me feel richer. I call this American literature, but Pearl Buck writes about China, and to say that these authors are American is to realize that they write about a country we’ve scarcely known. Their sense of personhood, home and place seem like a distant memory now. Their confidence about what life should be is something we hardly hope for anymore. And yet, their narratives are true ones, true to their persons, desperately honest and hopeful for a place that God intends: a place where people can have what it means to be human.
The only book among these that I’ve needed secondary literature for is “Black Elk Speaks.” This book, says other recent scholarship, needs the original notes as dictated, and the knowledge of the man Nicholas Black Elk at the time of the telling. Nic became a devout Catholic catechist and missionary, and this is not widely known. His biographer hints strongly that this knowledge is more than many people want to know. If you read or listen to “Black Elk Speaks” I recommend reading “Black Elk: Holy Man of the Oglala” by Michael F. Steltenkamp. The story in its entirety is well worth knowing. I was first made of aware of it by Richard Twiss in his seminar at Cornerstone Festival available here.
My journey is not over. I’m now tapping the Blues. Robert Johnson, Blind Willie, Mississippi John Hurt, and the list goes on. I awake in the mornings with their rhythms hammering in my head. Their stories are at times obscene, embarrassing, and utterly profane. At times they have more hope than I can bear. There’s a lot of good stuff in Martin Scorsese’s series “The Blues” for PBS.
I’m like thirty pages from finishing this book! Julia Duin has been working on this book about Graham Pulkingham and Church of the Redeemer for the last 20 years and it just came out this month. It’s been one of those books I’ve been so obsessed with that I haven’t been able to put it down. I’ll review later.
Also, be praying for these three young Americans detained in Iran. I notice they all have blogs.
I know, I know, the NIV is the most popular English translation of the Bible and has been for the last twenty-five years. I grew up with the NIV. That’s all I read until a few years after Bible college when I finally admitted to myself that I was no longer really reading the Bible when I read the NIV but was reading a severely limited Protestant evangelical summation of it. Sound harsh? I don’t hate the NIV. It simply got to the point that nothing in it surprised me anymore. I’d read it cover to cover at least a few times and I needed to try some translations that were new to me. At first I went with the REB, and then I went to the NRSV, then I went to the NASB. I got back into the Amplified Bible in reading my mom’s articles. In short, my problems with the NIV were simply due to overuse. When every time I heard the Bible read it was from the NIV and every time I read it myself it was the same, the world of the Bible got quite small and familiar. This happened quite quickly for me while reading The Message Bible by Eugene Peterson. That Bible left me thinking the Bible was written for upper middle class Portlanders with a guilty conscience.
We English only speakers need to stop thinking God speaks our language. We should read the Bible hard enough to question our assumptions. And where the jury is out we should read enough translations to let the Bible be just plain difficult. Wanting things easy usually means wanting God to give me a tailor-made world where I know just what to expect. That’s certainly not the world of the Bible.
One can discover a lot about a man through this simple procedure. One man waits patiently for his turn, another tries to push in, another manipulates his way up the line. A drunken sleepy man stooped in posture, an energetic twitching man grins talking to an imaginary friend and four friends joke, talk and laugh loudly with each other.
One gentleman who would grace us frequently at Macon Overnight Ministries during its whole 3 year existence was an Italian Polish 53 year old simply called Nick; he would stand quietly in line and keep to himself and suddenly splutter into a coughing fit dispersing the crowd around him with loud accusations of rampant TB. Ironically Nick never had Tuberculosis. Nick would jump in anger to his own defense, and we assured the crowd that he was not contagious.
Nick shuffled to the sign-in sheet and murmurs “hi Jeremy” and with snail-like swiftness awkwardly writes N I C K with his face several inches from the paper. No last name, no age and no signature. He often scribbled his name in the place he was not supposed to write on, hardly ever keeping his 4 letters between the 2 lines.
Nick lived with a horrific disability rarely seen or admitted on the shores of America. He was illiterate. He could not read or write a single lick, except for those 4 magic letters – N I C K. Until one witnesses such a man struggling through life, it is hard to put oneself in such a man’s shoes. Illiteracy affects every aspect of their lives.
Nick’s struggles did not end there. He had some horrible asthmatic and bronchial problems, issues dealing with excessive weight and mental illness and a host of medications; thus, we ended up calling 911 for him more than any other man. After a few nights in a hospital he would arrive again on our doorstep needing another night’s rest. Nick always wanted to offer something; he picked up a broom or mop and proceeded to clean, often resulting in rapid panting and the need to sit. We told him repeatedly that he did not need to help, but he insisted and would grab the broom. Nick had a heart of gold.
Penniless. Unemployed. Homeless. He did not fulfill society’s perception of homeless men; Nick was not a drug addict, an alcoholic, a criminal or a gang-banger. His curse was simply, he was unable to read or write. He was unable to breathe like the rest of us. But as with all of us, Nick was a human being searching for his God given purpose, eternal life free of suffering and for love. Nick experienced glimpses of that at Cornerstone.
We loved Nick. Nick loved us. He erupted with outbursts of emotion from time to time, but Nick was part of the Cornerstone family. We never knew of any family he had. A new guy would come in, ridicule, provoke and taunt this poor man, and many a CCO veteran would jump to his defense. Nick had found a family at CCO, and we proudly accepted him. We needed Nick! Nick needed us!
After months of encouraging Nick to join Harper House (our day time supportive service program), he enrolled, and we were able to help him more thoroughly. We spoke with the doctors who monitored his health and prescribed his medication from the local free clinic. We helped him take the right dosage. We helped him eat the right foods. He was losing weight, looking healthier and had gentler deposition.
Every night “The Word” was spoken to the men as they lay on their mattresses. For 20 – 30 minutes we expounded truth from the Word of God. It was Nick’s highlight in his long days. He waited in anticipation. As he sat up gazing at the speaker, he was angered when another made a noise and was frustrated when the wrong person delivered the message. He would burst out with a question as he tried to understand. He longed for “the Word”.
Out of the blue, the MOM and Harper House programs lost funding and they had to close. My thoughts and prayers went out to all the men; I knew some guys would take advantage of the situation, a lot would find their struggle harder and some would resort back to the life they had been fighting to defeat. The stories are immense! But, my heart went out to Nick; the question was how he would or could survive a brutal winter in Chicago. He did not end up in another shelter, in a transient hotel or a nursing home. His disability sadly caused Nick to disappear and sleep under any viaduct or tree. He was hard to find.
Three and half months later I heard on the streets, Nick had passed away, in mid December 2004, in a Chicago hospital. Through a little investigation I discovered he had pneumonia and an infection. The cold Chicago winter had captured his life.
I believe we were able to offer this lonesome warrior a little concern, a little love and Jesus. The “least of these” stood in our midst. Jesus loved Nick. Nick loved Jesus. I believe this lonely man passed into His loving eternal arms, where there will be no crying, no pain, no suffering and no injustice.
When I walk to the Shelter, I normally pass a number of men and women I personally know, who struggle with alcoholism and drug abuse. Most of them, being homeless or precariously housed, have isolated themselves from almost all social services and society. Because of their addictions, lack of impulse control and lapse in hygiene, they have become America’s ultimate rejects. This country’s poor of the poor! Sadly their lifestyle results in homeless shelters constantly having to bar them due to their extravagant behavior, yet ironically, a strong little community has formed.
This community of ex-offenders, drunks, prostitutes, crack heads and the mentally ill may seem ugly, but in reality, they have created a network of support and security. They eat, drink, fight, play and pray together. Amongst the chaos that constantly lingers, they have a system that functions to uphold one another, to cry for mercy and protect the weak. Whereas, they often indulge in illegal activities and enable each other’s addictions, their ultimate goal is to lift each other from their poverty! They are caught in a seemingly endless cycle that echoes their despair, yet in desperation and when opportunities arise they join forces to push their friend from that pit.
I have discovered that my calling is to infiltrate that community and offer answers and hope. They have welcomed me into their clique and I have found myself loving these men and women greatly. I mourn when they mourn, laugh when they laugh, play when they play and pray when called to pray, Yet, I also try to help them escape the vicious cycle of addiction, break the bonds of incarceration and be a peacemaker in their times aggravation and threats. I thank God for the loving relationship that has formed between us.
While they may welcome me with open arms, fist pumps and smiles; their beers and bottles of gin are placed in pockets, behind their legs and in other hiding places. Conversations also silence and their language changes. They do this out of respect and to keep certain activities in the dark! I have seen and heard the call of “here comes Jeremy” as I wander around the corner, momentarily any drinking ceases. Naturally, days also come when the intoxication peaks and tempers flare, the cops come and arrests are made as they struggle to keep hidden their obvious misdemeanors. God has gifted me with this sad, yet beautiful, position!
On Labor Day, I walked down the street to the cry, “Jeremy, look we’re all drinking today, ya want one?” and they all held up cans of sprite and laughed. Joking continued as they spoke of changing their addictions from alcohol to sugar! They show me four 12 packs of various sodas. After a few hours of work, I start wandering home and a usual suspect, Francis, approaches me snuggling a Natural Ice. We are discussing some of life’s concerns with Bernard, when 2 young men, looking out of place, approach us and mumbled a request. Francis and Bernard immediately act shocked claiming “we know nothing about that.” The young men slowly walk away, and Bernard tells me they wanted to buy a nickel bag of weed.
Jerome sits on a stoop daily. He continually drinks his woes away. Almost 60, he has never learnt to read and write. He has never been assessed and does not receive any income. His plight, like many serially inebriated homeless folk, is the fact that he has been ignored, despised and rejected, left to live in the literal gutter.
And who tries to pick him up, offer a glimmer of hope and give him a sense of fellowship? It is not the government and not even the Church. It was and remains to be, this community of rejects who are barely surviving. They intercede for him, begging for us to help give him shelter and meet his needs. And together, we fight to break the bondage that has gripped Jerome since his teenage years.
On a practical level, we have got his social security card, birth certificate from Alabama, school records and, most recently, his State ID. One of the loitering crew escorted him downtown to help him get his identification, and they all proudly celebrated this accomplishment and made fun of his photo, with his unkempt hair that made him look like Don King. We have also helped him set up appointments for housing and his medical needs. There has also been a concerted effort to help him apply for SSI online. It is a long and tiresome procedure! Often I need to find and see Jerome and all I need to do is send out a word. The community will hunt him down, and he’ll walk into my office faster than if I’d sent an e-mail.
It is a hard life for these folks, as their community is riddled with disease and death. This is not a case of drunkards needing to pull themselves up by their boot straps. This a group of people enslaved in bondage so strong and so deep, there does not seem to be answers. It is a corporate effort of people being willing to climb down into their world and live! A marvelous thing is witnessed by entering their world; hope, progress and miracles happen!
Amongst the stench of urine, sweat, alcohol and cigarette smoke, one often catches a whiff of a sweet smelling perfume. That perfume ignites a reminder of how Jesus sits on crate enjoying the company of America’s “least of these”. It reminds me of how their little community often shames Christian communities, and how we can and could learn from their examples of faith, generosity and love. It reminds me of the faithful widow generously giving her all; a mere mite. It reminds me that Jesus came to save sinners in need of a physician. That sweet smell reminds me of Jesus giving props to the sinner who prayed that simple prayer sobbing, “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner!”
I need to be reminded that within the Kingdom of Heaven, God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, the weak to shame the strong and “God chose the lowly things of the world, and the things that are despised, and the things that are not, that he might bring to nothing the things that are.” Jesus upended the glory of money, strength and power, by simply proclaiming that within His Kingdom “the first shall be last, and the last, first!”
At work, I see the devastating effects of young men and women dedicating their lives to a Chicago gang. It will grip them and hold them and it won’t let go! They pledge allegiance to a philosophy, power and financial gain. The results are sometimes fatal, but at the very least, devastating. A dream was sold, a concept was grasped, a life was imprisoned and a family scattered!
As I ponder; I witness, speak to and engage these gangsters and realize a life behind bars is not just the physical reality of seeing the inside of Cook County Jail and an impending movement down state to another cell block. An internal imprisonment is granted as another young soul pledged allegiance to the “5 or 6 pointed star” nation! It is a bondage that is so strong, this young soul carries this burden his or her whole life. After seeing the dream was a lie, the now older soul struggles to tear this burden from his tired back only for it to remain and stick like super-glue!
Often in vain, I have discouraged the young from joining and encouraged the old to escape. Like an addiction, people flee only to find themselves embraced once again by the life “they know”. Ironically, I would say this is a life of uneasy security and uncomfortable comfort. My souls mourns over these imprisoned souls and I can only retreat to the wonderful gift of prayer, knowing this “power” or “force” is too great for mere mortals to tangle with. “Be still and know that I am God”
But, how different am I? They, like me, seek to live a life worthy of the heavenly kingdom. “What a wretched man I am! Who will deliver me out of this body of death?” The battle in Romans 7 only echoes the inner turmoil of gang bangers seeking redemption. It is not an exclusive trait; it permeates throughout humankind seeking to devour its prey through our own pledging of allegiances to fleeting realities such as the flag, country, military, social status, family, sex, sports, church, music, technology and media! Yet, we cannot and must not forget the power and influence of money and materialism, which Jesus aptly gave the title “Mammon”, knowing humanity will struggle not to bow down and worship it.
My battle is to make sure that my allegiance bows to the foolishness of the cross, not the power and influence of kingdoms like Mammon and Technology. Dreams are sold and faith is lost, but the cross breaks the bondage and sets us free. Jesus told us plainly we cannot serve two masters, and the Kingdom of God is continually fighting against the many kingdoms that rise against it. Yet, we can rest in the beauty, seen in Revelation, that the weak Lamb murdered on a foolish cross defeated all kingdoms and beasts, and we can live in a resurrected hope!
