Undercover pastor hosted by homeless
As a pastor, I went into my intentional night as a homeless person in Spokane hopeful that I would learn about how my congregation might offer Christian hospitality to those in need. I had a faint idea that standing at the margins of our community is an important experience for the one who seeks to reach out and help.
After phoning an intrigued friend on the staff of the Union Gospel Mission and getting a stamp of approval from my wife, I dressed up in some old clothes, parked my car near the Union Gospel Mission, left behind everything but my car key and walked the streets of downtown.
My senses were heightened to the warm glow of affluence on display in store windows, the fast and indifferent pace of traffic, and the cold, windy reality of the sidewalk. I tried to get up the courage to ask for spare change, but my own firm refusals on the other side of such exchanges kept me silent and hidden.
Like most people on a cold night in Spokane, I figured out that the bus depot is the place to be. It was a circus of activity, a way station for wild-eyed wanderers. I printed up a list of homeless shelters at the HUD kiosk and asked a stranger, “Do you know how to get to the Union Gospel Mission?”
In a wonderful surprise gift, he said, “That’s where I’m going.”
He welcomed the role of guide and mentioned the bus number we should take. In a flustered, vulnerable moment I explained that I didn’t have any money. Without hesitation he pulled out a crumpled dollar bill and handed it to me.
Three of us got off the bus at the Mission and we soon discovered that it would be the first night in a homeless shelter for all of us. We stuck together like a new pledge class in a fraternity.
We mostly sat around and waited — for dinner and for chapel and for showers and for bed. We sat in a large room with strangers, sharing an occasional disoriented glance of recognition.
My two new friends and I talked. We talked about jail and drug treatment programs and how they don’t have meth on the East Coast, but how it’s everywhere here, and “after that first taste it was over.” We talked about a 9-month-old daughter who is in foster care and a 21-year-old daughter attending Eastern who would “freak out if she knew I was here.”
We talked about recovery and relapse and doing 90 meetings in 90 days. We shared Hot Tamales and laughed at my funny brown pajama bottoms provided by the Mission. They went halfway down my shins and sported a leopard pattern with illustrations of various shop tools.
After a restless night’s sleep we gathered for breakfast and chatted about the day ahead. They were going to a recovery meeting at noon and encouraged me to join them. “It’s a good meeting. You should come,” they said. After breakfast I slipped out the door, got in my car, and with a combination of gratitude and guilt, drove home.
I went into this experience expecting to be taken care of by the institutions of our city, but I learned that hospitality is much more personal and improvised. In an unexpected gift, I was most significantly hosted by homeless drug addicts who welcomed me. The hot meal, warm shower and clean bed were a blessing, but my greatest hopefulness came from the compassion of fellow travelers.
I learned for myself that in this Christmas season, hospitality is not only about me helping the needy, but also about being vulnerable, open to the unexpected hospitality of strangers. I learned that those who are familiar with hardship are generous and compassionate. I couldn’t help but think that those of us who are more familiar with security, like me, tend to be suspicious and aloof.
As a Christian and a pastor I learned about why Jesus comes to us from the margins, in a manger, in a nowhere town, to a no-name family, into a world where there is “no room.” He comes as a fellow traveler, bringing dignity and hope to every person who knows what it is to be disoriented and vulnerable. I have a new appreciation for the “good news of great joy for all the people” (Luke 2:10).