I`m getting straight to the point
today: I have the utmost respect for the homeless people I have met in Harlem. You
want to know why?
Raw
vulnerability.
They have nothing to hide behind. They
don’t have fancy cars, and flat screen TV’s. They don’t have big houses, with
freshly manicured lawns. There is no picture of their seemingly perfect families
dressed in their Sunday best. They don’t have overworked and underpaid jobs.
All they have is a cart full of plastic
bottles to recycle for 5 cents. All they have is the street, and a sliver of
sidewalk to call home. All they have are scars, and stories of where they have
come from and are waiting to share their wisdom. And that my friends, is what I
love. THAT is what the church is missing.
There are people filling the pews in
church beside you every Sunday, that are crushed, bleeding and broken, and too
afraid to do anything about it. I`m sick of Christians pretending that everything
is great in their lives; like being a Jesus follower comes in a neatly wrapped package
with a bow on top. I`m sick of well-intentioned people talking about crazy
homeless Joe as if HE is the only one with a problem. Want to know the real
problem? It’s you. It’s you. It’s the Sunday school teacher who is addicted to
pain killers, and the church elder who is abusive to his family. It’s the
greeter who greets cheerfully every Sunday, while wishing that someone would
notice how desperate and alone they are inside. It’s the picture perfect soccer
mom with three kids, and a well-to do husband that has been having an affair
for years in order to feel wanted and cherished. It’s the members of the body
of Christ, who hide behind their “stuff” to fool everyone else into thinking
they have it all together.
But when you don’t have “stuff” to hide
behind, all you have left is…you. All you have is raw, deep, vulnerability. And
when an empty recyclable 5-cent can, and your story are all that you have to
your name—you cling to it; you OWN that story!
As I have met people in the soup
kitchens, and on the streets, I have had many opportunities to pray with
people. As I grab their calloused hand and look them in the eye, they tell me
from the depths of their soul what they need. It’s not a job, or financial
security. They don’t ask prayers for “stuff” or material gain. They ask prayers
for things that only God can give. I pray for crack addicts to be set free, and
for prostitutes to know they are worthy of much more. I’ve prayed with moms of
young boys who are being initiated into gangs, and with young boys who are
tormented by watching the death of a friend. I’ve prayed with alcoholics,
though still drunk at the time, are able to tell me they know their life would
be better if they could ditch the alcohol. And I pray every night that all the
people I encounter, know that they can’t clean themselves up—but that they
encounter a God that can.
Margaret Atwood has a poem titled
“Spelling” which she writes a line, which has stuck with me for years.
“A word, after a word, after a word is power.”
And it’s true. Speaking that which we
are too ashamed to speak is a powerful thing. It’s not easy. In fact, it’s
dreadfully hard. But when there is nothing else to hide behind, and all you
have is that which you are—you own it, and you realize that the world craves
that authenticity and vulnerability.
The homeless people I have encountered
here have one thing going for them—they are standing bare, and unhidden in the
glory of Jesus. God doesn’t have to strip them down and weed back the “stuff”
to get to their true hearts; because there they stand, on the sliver of
sidewalk they call home, with their true hearts ready to be rescued by a real,
and vulnerable Jesus.
