Surf check.
My friend and I had just finished a hearty breakfast at Good Stuff in Hermosa Beach. It was a cold, winter morning. We could hear waves breaking, and the flags told us the wind was offshore. We headed south to the Pier to get a good look at what was happening, and where we might paddle out.
As we made our way down, a woman emerged from the beach wearing a crumpled T-shirt and running shorts. It looked to me as if she had spent the night under the Pier. She turned and greeted me.
“Hey, sweetie!”
“Good morning.” I sheepishly replied.
“You’re Chris Cannon, right?”
“Yes, but I don’t think I know you.” As a pastor, I pride myself on knowing names and faces. I was now on the defensive.
“I’m Wendy. We went to Rolling Hills (High School) together. Don’t you remember?”
Of course I did. She was a Homecoming Princess. We grew up at the same church. Her brother was in my class. I ‘m certain I lost my poker face at that moment. “What are you doing sleeping under the Pier?” “How can I help?” I hit her with about five questions that doubled as concerns.
She told me, rather brazenly, that she was making a living by selling her body. She was on her way to one of the local bars in Hermosa, now defunct, to begin her day with a Bloody Mary.
My heart sank. I fumbled through my wallet and gave her a business card. Seeing her once beautiful hair in this messy display with sand covering one side of her hardened face left me heartbroken and almost speechless. I urged her to please call me. I desperately wanted to help. There had to be something that could be done.
She took it obligingly. Smiled. And never called.
That encounter was a defining moment for me. I’ve never looked at the homeless among us quite the same. I remind myself that each person begging for money once had a third-grade teacher. When I see someone rifling through the trash, I imagine a day when two parents held up a baby and dreamed of their child’s future. When I see the mentally ill man talking to himself, I imagine him playing AYSO as a child, dreaming of a bright future, as I did.
And I wonder, what happened? How did Wendy’s life take a turn? We traveled parallel paths for the first 20 years of our lives. What factors and choices lead some people to a life of chronic troubles and homelessness?
My call to action starts with the deeply rooted conviction that each one of us is made in the image of God: “Imago Dei.” In the first chapter of Genesis, we are told that God made humanity “in His likeness.” I don’t believe this is a reference to our physical similarity as much as it means that we have the capacity to love, care and encourage. Each one of us bears the DNA of our Creator. On that basis alone, I believe that every human being is worthy of dignity, the dignity of compassion, mercy and relief. No questions asked. No conditions required. Every one of us is made uniquely, and bears a resemblance to our Maker. When I, dare I say we, start with this firmly held belief, our lenses are forever altered, in a good way.
Now that I see differently, I also have come to understand that the “homeless” among us generally land in one of three camps: the voluntary, the hidden, and the incapacitated. The voluntary homeless are those we may often see. They frequent the same coffee shops early to use the restroom, panhandle at the same locations, and sleep on the same benches. They generally are eager to receive help, but only on their own terms. The years I have spent with this population, from Santa Barbara, to Venice, to the South Bay, has taught me this reality. The voluntary homeless often ask for money saying they want to buy food, only to use this precious gift for other purchases much less humanitarian. This kind of experience can dramatically reduce our desire to help the next person who presents a similar request, and this can further lead to compassion fatigue, apathy and/or disdain for all who can be lumped into the category of “homeless.”
The voluntary are often a frustrating population to help. They want to be homeless. They don’t want a job. They don’t want an apartment. This begs the question: What does it mean to help the poor?
There is much disagreement on the topic. Many of my brothers and sisters in the faith community serve the voluntary homeless weekly meals. The savvy street person in the South Bay knows how to live somewhat well through the resources offered to those less fortunate in our community, but does this really help anyone besides the people doing the serving? Are the people we are “helping” really getting helped, or are we just creating a larger problem and adding to the entitlement so firmly embedded in all of us? I am challenged to go beyond charity. We need to discern who are the poor, and the best way to truly help them. Unfortunately, I have more questions than answers.
Lost in this discussion are those who are the hidden homeless. This is rapidly growing population, filling up with people who have been hit hard with the economic downturn the last five years. They live in cars. Some live in their offices or workplaces, and there are hundreds, even thousands, who are one paycheck away from joining this camp. They shower at the beach, or maintain a membership at the YMCA for hygiene purposes. They have that faraway look in their eyes. And they are ready to receive.
Recently I was visiting with friends at Peet’s in Redondo Beach. We were sitting outside enjoying the warmth of the Indian Summer. A young man approached us on his bike and made his pitch. Could we spare a couple of bucks so he could get a bite to eat? I gave him my standard answer. No, but I’d be happy to buy him something from the coffee shop to which he responded that he didn’t want anything sweet. He needed protein. Cynical, I suggested that he wait 10 minutes for me to finish my visit and I would buy him a burrito from El Tarasco. To my surprise, he agreed and waited for me outside the restaurant.
I made good on my promise, went down the street and ordered the biggest burrito on the menu. After paying, he burst into tears right there in the restaurant. He told me his heartbreaking story, how at 24-years-old he had ended up on the streets. He begged for a job. I made some referrals. We both left the restaurant with hope.
Finally, we have among us the incapacitated or mentally ill. In many ways, these are the most helpless and hopeless of our community. These are the people who may talk to themselves, yell at cars, and sometimes share conspiratorial theories to those who will listen. Sometimes they smell of bodily fluid. With dwindling county resources, this is another population on the rise. The topic of this population can give rise to a spirited discussion with some of us who serve these people. Which came first: homelessness or mental illness?
In essence, as we walk past those in our community without acknowledging their existence, we are dehumanizing them. By our neglecting to recognize their dignity as fellow human beings, they sink into themselves, creating their own realities, keeping themselves company. This loneliness and isolation, along with the need for safety, may be why many of our homeless attempt to maintain a pet. It may be a safeguard to their sanity. I believe that in some ways the simple greeting we extend to strangers at Starbucks can be extended to all, and may even be the difference between someone’s sanity and insanity. It’s worth it.
By the time this article goes to print we will have just finished our seventh annual Thanksgiving Eve Community Dinner. No doubt we will serve all three populations of the homeless among us. I plan to sit at a table with as many as 30-40 people who will consume a home cooked meal. I will hear many stories. Lord willing, I will listen attentively and communicate my genuine interest and concern for each one. We are fellow Image Bearers. I’m sure I will be confronted with my own hypocrisy, my own compassion fatigue. I’m sure that I will leave, with my daughters at my side, grateful for who and what I have in my life, and I am certain I will leave with a renewed commitment to the homeless among us.
So I have a proposition to make for our community, one that is based in hope. Because we have such a tremendous community, with an abundance of people resources, isn’t it time to form an alliance of folks who have a vested interest in the homeless among us? I believe that “we” is smarter than “me,” and that the answer is always in the room. Can we create an alliance of business, law enforcement, government, faith-based and mental health providers? We have an army of others whose hearts are breaking for the homeless among us. If not us, then who; if not now, then when? The call to action begins in our hearts and minds.
And Wendy, if you’re reading this, please call. The number is still good.
Chris Cannon is pastor at Kings Harbor Church in Redondo Beach. He can be reached at chris@kingsharbor.org ER
