Contrast might be a good word to describe the last few weeks.
In the beginning of March I was in Olympia, Washington, the State’s Capital and center of all dignified (or not) government activity. We ate breakfast with the State Representatives and had lunch with the Senators. We listened to Attorney General Rob McKenna and Governor Christine Gregoire. We wore our business formal attire, I even put heels on. We heard talk of unity, positive change, an improving economy, a different future for our generation. And I swear, if I heard the phrase “reaching across the aisle” one more time… But it was politics, with all the formality and hand-shakes and business card swapping one could expect. Still, there is so much to learn from watching men and women— really not all that different from you and me— trying to govern people with quite literally thousands of perspectives, beliefs, and wants. I have no desire to be in politics, and I so admire those of you who do—we need amazing leaders in the public sphere more than ever.
A mere ten days later, I was walking the sidewalks of Skid Row, Los Angeles- the largest concentrated area of homelessness in the United States. No formality here. Be as understated as you can, wear old tennis shoes, don’t stare. No less than half of the men and women in Skid Row are battling some kind of mental disorder, like schizophrenia, and those that are not are more than likely bound tightly by the chains of addiction. Alcohol, crack, marijuana. The streets are loud, crowded, lewd, and to be candid: gross. The smell of urine and trash is overwhelming, a lifetime of belongings for many people stacked against walls and park fences. In some places it is hard to tell if there are human beings under the blankets or not. One woman yelled at us in what sure sounded like anger as we walked through, “did you come here to look at us, or help?” Good question. I can’t help you; you need something I don’t have. Did I come here to know, did I come just to look? Does knowing more change anything? I am broken in so many ways by the images. The beautiful brown faced baby with big eyes held by a woman- probably his mother- with one of her hands and a cigarette, maybe a joint, in the other. Two bodies moving under a blanket on the concrete, one coming out only to put her pants back on. Just a block up the street is downtown Los Angeles— one of the most stunning dichotomies I have ever seen: sheer and utter hopelessness and squalor within eyesight of an animal-boutique. The deepest human suffering and a dog manicure, to my left and to my right. How do I even begin to process this? This is not fair. It should not be this way. But it is.
And just 36 hours after that, I was in Westwood, California, on the outskirts of the UCLA campus, looking for a new warm scarf in the American Apparel store. Irony personified.
And now I am home, in my comfortable little townhouse surrounded by great people and plenty of good things that make life pretty, and fun, and joyful for me. My amazing job brings me to the feet of influential politicians and also to front lines of real social issues— and I get to do these things with bright, articulate, engaged, and much-smarter-than-me young men and women. I am just so, so blessed.
This tension—the one between meeting the change makers who promise so much, seeing the hugely important necessity for change, and then feeling so helpless to do anything about it that I merely put it all into words and then go back to life as usual—it is eating me up. I see pain and poverty and injustice and I want so badly to do something about it, but I either don’t know what to do, or what I do know seems too hard or too crazy to actually live out. As one of the students who shared this journey with me said, “We learn about things, but it seems like we build a wall to keep these people out and then just throw a loaf of bread over to feel better about ourselves.” STOP. Are you kidding me?! Not only is that my most favorite metaphor ever, that’s it, that’s the tension: throwing bread over the wall is not enough anymore. We’ve got to tear the walls down, walk right into the messiness and with dignity for every human being, give our love, our time, and some bread.
Y’all, I do not have this figured out, not even close. But I know that my very basic and essential needs are no different than the woman in Skid Row—and the fear that comes when I feel like these needs won’t be met, that is the same fear the addicts, the homeless, the widows, the orphans feels. Same needs, same fear. And I know that Jesus didn’t build a wall and throw over the option of some legalistic pattern of life that would get us to him. He actually broke down the walls we ourselves built, and he joined us in the madness of life in this world. He brought us bread in the form of his perfect life. He gave us everything we need, and he hugged and held us and said it’s ok, be still, I’ve overcome all this chaos.
I don’t want my solution to injustice be to merely toss something I have at the issue so that I can move on with my life relatively guilt free. I want to bring food to the community collection place and actually stay and meet the people it is passed out to. I want to hold the babies wearing the diapers we donated. I want to have lunch with the young woman who feels like she just cannot leave her pimp. And I so desperately want the courage to respond with my life and not just my wallet. I want to meet, talk, hold, hug, ask, listen, pray… go.
Same needs… same fear.
This kind of life was modeled perfectly by the man I call the Messiah, the Hope of the world.
Let’s go break down walls.
