The Punch in the Stomach

Last night, my congregation hosted the local interfaith emergency housing program. Basically, that means homeless people sleep in our church and we provide food. Some folks who provide food will stay and eat, too. I'm usually one of the ones who sits down to eat with our guests for the evening. I often get the side-cocked head of confusion when I tell them I'm the pastor, but it's mostly good, easy conversation.

Well, kind of. It's weird conversation because it's a weird set-up. I feel weird even talking about this program that makes me feel a bit self-righteous because oh, look at us, we help the homeless. And it's awkward for our guests, too, because, hey, everyone in the room knows beyond a doubt that they are homeless. So I try to make it less weird. I introduce myself and ask their name. I ask about their life beyond being homeless. Where they grew up. What they like to do. I want to see them as more than homeless, as people. It has always seemed like something Jesus would do.

During last night's dinner conversation, we were talking about movies and what new movies we'd like to see. As I proclaimed my love of horror movies, which I often do, the conversation naturally turned to The Purge: Anarchy. It's the recently released sequel to The Purge. The basic premise of both movies is that for one night a year all crime is legal. Murder is included in that. I have yet to see the first one, but one of my dining companions had.

"You know," he said, "I really didn't like that part where they killed all the homeless people."

And silence took the place of words. Because what do you say to that? What could I say to that? I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach.

What could I say when reality trumps ideals? Yes, the people I had dinner with last night are people. They are neighbors Jesus calls me to love. They bear the image of God. I do those people a disservice when I dehumanize them--we all do--but I also do those people a disservice when I don't see them as homeless. Like it or not, homeless is part of their identity, especially when they're sleeping in my church.

And homeless means vulnerable in a way most of us never experience.

Homeless means mostly sleeping where you could be attacked. At the very least, you could be ridiculed and harassed because the broader culture says that's ok. Oh, and you know how we're taught to worry that the homeless person is high on drugs? Or drunk? Or mentally ill? Those same worries exist when you are homeless. It doesn't help that popular culture continues to say, "These are the people who don't matter." I'm not much help when I want to talk about things other than being homeless. For better or worse, "homeless" dictates a lot that goes on in the life of homeless person.

I wish I knew what to do with all that. I wish I had some great revelation to share. Mostly, I'm just pondering the fact that adjectives do matter and that it's ok to let them matter. Sometimes, loving my neighbor means loving my homeless neighbor in particular.