We all carry many stories within us. Some we tell often. Others are barely mentioned. And sometimes the most important stories are never told because there doesn’t seem to be an appropriate setting in which to tell them.
~ Charles Ringma, finding naasicaa: letters of hope in an age of anxiety
Having spent some years journeying with those on the margins of society, I often feel the weight of the stories that I carry. I thought that they would become lighter over time — these stories of broken lives, of beautiful children, of wonder and loss in dark places — but they have become heavier.
I think that these stories used to be lighter because I was quick to give them away. To be honest, a large part of the reason why I came to work on the streets in 1999 was because I was seeking adventure. So I was entertained by the violence and drugs, the sex and the rawness of it all. I came as a voyeur and boy did I ever encounter a whole range of gratifying emotions. As an adventurer, who wanted to be known as an adventurer, I quickly shared the stories I encountered with others — look, at the people I journey with, look at how radical I am! You’ll never believe what happened today, somebody died!
It is no wonder that my story-telling did little to bring others into relationships with those on the margins. I was journeying with the homeless as a consumer. I devoured their lives and then spat them back out so that my friends could also consume the entertaining and oh so shocking anecdotes that I spouted out at parties.
This story-telling, although speaking of the most important things, is fundamentally wrong for it springs from the wrong motives, it is spoken in the wrong context, and it is spoken to the wrong audience. It is something like throwing pearls before swine. Alas, I spent far too long treating God’s precious yet broken ones as objects of self-gratification, entertainment, and consumption.
Thank God that he has worked a continual process of conversion within me: a conversion to the crucified people of to today, a conversion to cruciformity, and a conversion to the Crucified One. Appropriately, as I have been undergoing this ongoing process of conversion I began to tell stories from the margins less and less. I realised that these stories are sacred, these stories are “the most important stories” and I began to wonder how I could share them with those who are not on the margins already. Wouldn’t I just be entertaining others with the sufferings of those that I loved? Wouldn’t I just be participating in the ongoing pornography of violence, of grief, of sex, and of loss that we feed on day after day? And so I began to pull back. It was with more and more hesitation that I shared my stories, especially stories about the most grievous things. My stories began to pile up within me. And they continue to do so. They are never too far from my mind. Once again I recall a conversation in a park, I remember a deal in an alleyway, I remember a dry spot beside a dumpster, and each of these things and places have people attached to them. But can I name them, or explain what happened? No, I cannot. So I put them away within me and I carry on.
You see, the reason why I have so much trouble sharing these stories is because, as Ringma suggests, the appropriate setting is almost always lacking. Because I have lost the desire to exploit these little ones in order to make myself look good. And I have lost the desire to exploit these little ones in order to amuse, shock, or gratify those who will not journey with people on the margins.
In a way I have lost faith in the power of these stories. Part of the reason I continued to share these stories with people, even after I began to realise their sacred nature, was because I thought these stories would lead others to the margins of society. I thought that maybe people didn’t act because they were ignorant. And so if others only knew the horror, the hell, and the totally fucked-up nature of some of these things, then maybe they would come and journey with these little ones. But I was wrong. Most people don’t journey on the margins of society, not because they lack knowledge; they don’t journey on the margins of society because they lack compassion. Plain and simple, it comes down to that. My stories are strong, it just turns out that apathy, self-indulgence, and distraction are stronger.
And so it goes. The most important stories are never told because there is no place provided for them. I will not share my stories from the margins, but you need to know that the ones that you love will also never share their most important stories with you. You will never know that your daughter was raped because you never created a place where she could tell you. You will never know that your son is gay because you never created a setting where he could tell you. And so on.
Everyday the people closest to us are hoping to find a setting that is safe, they are hoping to find an appropriate setting in which to tell us these things, but we never give it to them. So they carry them for as long as they can, and some of them learn to survive with that weight on their shoulders and others of them don’t. I am mostly weighed down with the stories of others, I cannot imagine what that weight would feel like if those stories were my own. Regardless, I will not lighten this load until I find the appropriate setting. And I keep thinking that I’ll find it among Christians, but they keep proving me wrong.

When the crowd saw what Paul had done, they shouted in the Lycaonian language, “The gods have come down to us in human form!”
~ Acts 14.11
There is a young man named Jay who walks up and down the strip on Granville Street. He doesn’t look that great — big beard, long knotted hair, mangled teeth, you know the sort. Jay has some sort of mental condition and he never seems to remember me, but that’s okay. He also has some sort of drug addiction — my guess is heroine but meth and crack are other obvious options — and I guess that’s okay too. Jay’s always cheerful, polite, and friendly when he asks for change. And he always calls everybody “brother” or “sister” — I sorta like that.
“Pardon me, brother, I hate to bother you, but I was wondering if you might have a little change?” He tends to lean away from you when he asks, smiling, and folding his hands behind his back.
If you do have change he’s always grateful, and if you don’t he makes sure you don’t feel bad for giving him nothing.
I was walking to work the other night and I saw Jay. I happened to have an extra smoke in my pocket and an extra five bucks in my wallet so I caught up with him and offered him the smoke. Then, before he could ask, I also gave him the five while we were making small talk. He was a little stunned and it always makes me sad to see how amazed people are (or how amazed people feel they have to act) if you give them something more than a couple of quarters. So Jay turns to me and he says this:
“You’re my god, man. You’re my god.”
I was a little taken aback by that, and so I told Jay that, no, I wasn’t any sort of god, but what he had probably picked up on in my little act of kindness was the love of God flowing through me to him. Jay had a hard time with that idea. He told me that he wasn’t a very lovely person. That sometimes he did pretty horrible things. In fact, he even told me that he might do some bad things with the money I have given him, so he would understand if I asked for it back.
I told him to keep the fiver. I told him that God knew all about what he had done, and what he was going to do, and God loved him anyway. I told him that it was bullshit to think that you’re a bad person just because you’ve done some pretty bad things. I told him God understands how sometimes we don’t have much of a choice when it comes down to surviving each new day. Even though we mess things up, I told him God still wants to give us gifts.
Jay listened to me and said that he wanted to give me something in return, but he didn’t have anything to give. So, I told him he could pray for me — and he did. His prayer for me was a greater gift by far than the five bucks and the smoke that I gave him.
As I think about what happened with Jay, about what he said to me when I first approached him, my thoughts lead me back to Acts 14 where Paul heals a cripple and the people who witness this miracle mistake him (and Barnabas) for gods. Me, all I had to do to get a similar reaction was give away a few dollars.
What does it say about the state of our Church when such a small act of love gets treated like a miracle? Granted, our ability as Christians to love others is a gift from God, but such basic acts of charity (and much more besides) should define us in our day to day encounters with people like Jay. I long for the day when I give my change to Jay and he says to me, “You must be a Christian, man”.

“Gimme hate, Lord,” he whimpered. “I’ll take hate any day. But don’t give me love. I can’t take no more love, Lord. I can’t carry it… It’s too heavy. Jesus, you know. You know all about it. Ain’t it heavy? Jesus? Ain’t love heavy? Don’t you see, Lord? You own son couldn’t carry it. If it killed Him, what You think it’s gonna do to me? Huh? Huh?”
~ From Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison
And what we mean when we pray for hate, Lord, is not that others would hate us. We’re used to that already. Of course, if you want to make others hate us more that’s okay, too. But what we really mean, Lord, is that we want you to teach us to hate others. This love is just too much. It’s fucking heavy, if you’ll pardon our French, Lord. It’s more than we can bear.
Because this love isolates us. And, Lord, isn’t love supposed to be something that brings us all together? But it doesn’t. It just drives us further and further away from our friends and families. And we can’t handle this kind of love on our own. So, give us hate. If we could learn to be a little more hateful than we’ll be a whole lot more comfortable. We’ll have a lot more friends too, Lord, and we’re tired of being alone.
And don’t you promise us new life, Lord? If you do then why is it that this love is killing us? What happened to the easy yoke, Lord? This one is more than we can bear.

During my time journeying with people on the margins I have known many people who have done horrible things. I have known, and been known by, crack dealers, pimps, pedophiles, rapists, torturers, and murderers. That’s a pretty horrible string of actions and titles.
But here’s the catch — of all the people I have known I have not been able to hate any of them. That is to say, I have learned to love every person I have met. Not because I have turned a blind eye to the things that they have done, but because I have seen something worth loving in each person. I have found it impossible to not show compassion to any of them — even though I tried hard to hate some of them at first. In all of these people I have caught a glimpse of somebody loved by God — despite the life-shattering violence they have experienced and the life-shattering violence they have inflicted on others. I have met broken people who have done evil things, but in all these relationships I have not met a single evil person. It is easy to call these people evil from a distance, but I challenge you to journey with them face to face and come to the same conclusions.
Furthermore, I think that this compassionate love is the way that Christians should respond to these people. After all, we are called to love even our enemies, and pray for those who persecute us. And this is premised upon the very character and actions of the Christian God. Here is a God who transforms enemies into friends, who loves so deeply that he loves and forgives even those who rejected him, mocked him, striped him, and crucified him. It is this, perhaps more than anything else, that sets the Christian God apart from all other gods. What other God was willing to undergo this humiliation? What other God takes evil seriously and still loves in a way that extends beyond evil, making evil impotent? As worshipers of this God, Christians are called to love even these people.
This is one of the reasons why I tend towards a hopeful universalism. If I, in all my fallenness, can love these people in my small way, does not God love them far more? If I am called to journey with them, to commit myself to loving even my enemies, and the enemies of my loved ones, is not God even more committed to this? It makes no sense for God to call us to love our enemies (because he loves his enemies) and then for God to go on to damn his enemies. It especially makes no sense when we come face to face with our enemies, and the enemies of our loved ones, and discover that there is something lovely within them. If I can see that within them, surely God can see far more. I suspect that I am only giving them a small taste of a far greater love. A love that is still to come. A love that will come when God comes down and heals all wounds, dries all tears, and makes all things new.

The good news is that he came back.
Three days without sleeping, bingeing on crack, and reeking of sweat and smoke and piss.
But he came back.
And I had to tell him that he is no longer welcome here. The powers that be have decided that he isn’t following his plan adequately, so he has to go. We’re so glad you came back… now pack your bags and get out of here. It makes no sense to me. No sense at all. Yet he is the third youth that we’ve treated this way in as many weeks. And it breaks my heart.
But I’m glad that I was the one who told him. Because I’m letting him go to his room. I’m letting him take a shower and sleep here for one more day. I’m letting him know, as best as I can, that he is beloved, that he has a hard battle ahead of him but that the odds are not insurmountable, and there are people here that are committed to him.
I give him a hug and tell him there’s hope and he stuffs his hands in his pockets and heads to his room.
It’s hard to look into the eyes of a person who has just been shattered. It’s hard to stare hopelessness, shame, and brokenness in the face. But I have no choice. Again and again I sit and gaze upon the sufferings of those I love, knowing full well that I cannot heal their wounds or wipe away their tears. So I direct their cries to God and wonder how long we have to endure these things before our groans reach heaven and cause God to remember how much he abhors injustice and slavery.
So, here it is, God. Another groan, another cry. How long until you will see, hear, remember and come down?
Elijah mocks Baal for not hearing the groans of those who seek him. Perhaps Baal is asleep, perhaps he’s indisposed. But the Lord God is not like Baal, or so Elijah tells us. The Lord God hears and answers. The Lord God comes down.
And so, O Lord, I wonder why it seems like you are playing the role of Baal. Once again my prayers go unanswered and another child is lost.
But I keep on groaning to you anyway. I keep on praying and crying out. I keep on declaring that you, Lord God, are the Lord of all, full of mercy and abounding in love. I know that you have nothing in common with Baal even though I don’t understand the difference sometimes. Because, honestly, sometimes I don’t know if I need to repent because I have accused you, or ask you to repent because you stand by and do nothing for so many, even though we beg you to do something. And so, until you come, I will speak, I will groan, I will cry out. I will not put my hand over my mouth.

[Another brilliant insight from one of the fellows at my work.]
“So, I was at a pretty low point, you know? No where to stay, on a run, I hadn’t slept in four days, and I was going all bi-polar. I was just going crazy, you know? Crazy shit.
So, I have this buddy who lives in one of the S.R.O.s in the eastside, and I figure I’d go visit him because I needed to take a shower, take a shit, and pass out, you know? Well, I show up there and he’s not in yet, so, while I’m waiting for him, it hits me that I really need to shit. Then, before I can do anything about it, it all explodes in my underpants. Anyway, my buddy shows up a little later, and I go clean up, throw out my underpants and crash out.
I was pretty glad I had that pair of underpants. I was wearing the only set of clothes I owned then, and if I didn’t have that pair of underpants, I would have been fucked. I would have had shit all over my pants. I would have had to throw them away, and then I’d just be this crazy guy walking around downtown with no pants on. You can’t walk around with no pants on!
Anyway, I got thinking about it later on, and I started thinking that, Jesus was like my underpants. I mean, my life was shit, everything was fucked up… but it could have been a whole lot worse. Jesus kept all the shit from getting out of control, he was the thin line between thing being messed up and things just being totally fucked beyond repair.
Yeah, Jesus is my underpants.”

Can you call yourself a coward simply because the courage of others seems to you out of proportion to the triviality of the occasion? Thus wisdom creates cowards. And thus you miss the Opportunity while spending your life on the lookout for it.
~ Umberto Eco, Foucault’s Pendulum
[B]ut God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise.
~ Paul, 1 Cor 1.27a
Eco is correct it is passion that gives us the courage to conquer our fears. More exactly, it is the passion of love that enables us to move and walk where others are afraid to go. We end up loving so deeply that we forget to be afraid and we become fools in the eyes of the wise.
For wisdom is always the excuse of the fear-full. Wisdom that lives cautiously, that exercises “common sense” instead of surrendering and taking the plunge.
I have found all this to be true in my journey with those who live on the margins of society. It is love that has drawn my into their company, it is love the keeps me there and draws me ever deeper. For I was once very afraid — probably more than most. I used to be afraid of everything — strangers, dark places, street people, gang bangers, they all used to terrify me (hell, I used to cry when my parents left me alone in Sunday School!). But somehow, along the way, I fell in love with all these bad-asses, rejects, and misfits. I discovered that I was beloved, and, therefore, all of us are beloved. And so I throw my wisdom aside and I walk the alleyways at night.
Of course, when some people hear about what I do they often say, “Well, it takes a special person to do that kind of work”, and “I suppose that’s an important piece of the puzzle, but there are other key ways to help”. I listen to intelligent, well-reasoned explanations why the true solution to homelessness, abuse, suffering, etc., is not found in journeying intimately with others, but, rather, found in political programs, financial schemes, and the increased donation of funds. And all of this reveals how so many people consider the sufferings of others to be trivial. The homeless are trivialised when we offer them programs and money instead of companionship.
I listen to a thousand and one ways in which people rationalise a life devoid of intimacy with those who deserve it the most and I think, “Why are you so afraid?”
There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear.
~ John(?), 1 John 4.18.

Dare todo a los demas
y llorare mi pasion
como nino abandonado
en cuento que se borro.
~ Frederico Garcia Lorca, “Cancion menor”
I think that I’m changing and I don’t know if it is good or bad, but I suspect the latter. I am more often angry, more often weary, and more often apathetic than I used to be. I have less patience for other Christians, and less tolerance for spiritual language far removed from radical solidarity with the poor. And, in a way, I think I may have given up on most people. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that most people are too self-absorbed, and too self-indulgent to do anything about the suffering around them. I’ve been resigning myself to the fact that the only result of my journey with broken people may be my own brokenness. And that’s okay.
“You don’t cry?”
“No. I think it’s horrid, beastly… When you cry, all your sadness comes pourin’ out, as though your heart was meltin’ like butter — nasty! That’s to say –” She blinked her eyes again — “one ‘ud have to find another — a better way o’ cryin’, somehow — I suppose you think that’s silly?”
“No,” I said. I hesitated; the least clumsiness, I could feel, might frighten off this fierce creature for ever. “One day you’ll see that prayer is just that way of crying, the only tears that aren’t soft.”
~ George Bernanos, “The Diary of a Country Priest”
I wish I could find a way to be more humble. Less prideful, less bitter. I wish I could be more simple and learn how to love unconditionally. How does one learn to be grace-filled? How does one recapture innocence when one is surrounded on one side by suffering and on the other side by apathy?
And I too have lost my innocence, not by what I have learned but by what I have done.

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine.
Et nos amours, faut-il qu’il m’en souvienne?
La joie venait toujours apres la peine.
Vienne la nuit, sonne l’heure,
Les jours s’en vont, je demeure.
~ Guillaume Apollinaire
Voyeuristic impulses are hard to shake in the culture in which we live. Even though I have been undergoing a process of re-sensitisation, a deliberate process of discovering the real humanity found in those we tend to ignore, mock, or despise, I find that these elements still surface within me. Sometimes at work I still catch myself thinking, “I can’t wait to write home with this story!” It saddens me to discover this about myself, and it makes me all the more hesitant to share stories with others who are not involved with the type of people with whom I have the privilege of journeying. If, in the immediate situation, I am still tempted to find something entertaining in the events that transpire then those removed from the situation will almost inevitable experience the event solely as entertainment.
What is equally saddening is the way in which we need to appeal to the voyeur in everyone if we are to attract donors. This holds true for all people including Christians. People want a story that titillates, that entertains, that is oh so tragic. Stories of violence make me shiver and feel alive, stories of prostitution are so romantic, stories of abandoned kids remind me of puppies with sad eyes. And if any of these people end up loving Jesus, well, gosh, I’d pay good money for that. What a satisfying little adventure.
It brings me back to something shouted by an unknown British TV reporter in a crowd of Belgian civilians waiting to be airlifted out of the Belgian Congo c.1960. He looked out on the crowd, knowing what kind of story makes for captivating news, and yelled,
“Anyone here been raped and speaks English?”
Sometimes I feel that Christians are looking for the something similar. Donors come to us asking,
“Anyone here been raped and loves Jesus?”