Perfect Storms, Tribes and Social Miracles

The common definition of a “perfect storm” began as “a phenomenon where conditions are just right to produce an event of catastrophic proportion.” I’ve also heard “perfect storm” used frequently and, I think, appropriately in describing the lives of so many we serve at the Mission. 

Rarely can we point to one single circumstance that drives a family or an individual into profound need or homelessness. It’s more a matter of conditions piling on top of each other in a way that produces catastrophe in someone’s life.

For example, when Warren lost his wife to cancer some years ago, he turned inward and medicated his grief with alcohol. He ended up alienating his married children and grandchildren. He began showing up at work hung over and depressed, which led to him losing that job. Unable to find another job in a shrinking economy while he was on unemployment, he ended up homeless, alone, hungry and addicted.  Grief, alcoholism, broken relationships, an economy on the fritz and fading chances for employment. Smells like a storm, doesn’t it?

Jerry’s cardiologist is convinced that the stress of being laid off led directly to Jerry’s cardiac collapse a few months later. Jerry kept looking for work while he was recovering. He went into interviews looking well-dressed, but really haggard. Meanwhile his nest egg shrunk and then disappeared. His deteriorated health fed his deteriorating opportunity to work which further deteriorated his economic stability-- or should that be in another order? Maybe it’s all of the above, together, firing at random.

So what do you do when your neighbor is caught in storms like those? Convene the next meeting of experts and make the homeless and hungry the main topic? Write a politician and tell her to take care of the problem? Hope some rich family foundation or Donald Trump-type coughs up a huge check?

What if you could be part of a social miracle? 

In his book Lost Icons (T&T Clark 2000), Rowan Williams (yep, that one -- the Archbishop of Canterbury) comments on what historian John Bossy calls “the social miracle” of the medieval community and church -- charity resulting from “the extraordinary process by which sectional loyalties were from time to time interrupted and overcome by a sense of integration, of belonging to an entire social body extending far beyond one’s choice or one’s affiliations of interest and ‘natural’ loyalty” (Williams, p.54).  In other words, people made the choice to move beyond the tribalism of the Dark Ages into a greater community to benefit those in need. Bossy counts that as nothing short of a miracle. 

He’s probably right. Think about the tribes, each with their own biases, mores and folkways, in our modern culture. Tribes spring up over economic status. Tribes thrive on divisive politics. Tribes nurture differences of social position. Tribes watch with fear should someone invade a comfort zone within their territory. Asking tribes to move beyond their perceived boundaries of relation is tantamount to social heresy. If one’s boundaries don’t include those who have slipped into a different tribe of people struggling with alcoholism or poverty, it can be difficult to even see the need to offer a hand up to others.

But that hand up is necessary for those neighbors (there’s a community term), many of whom may never share our tastes in candidates, football teams, restaurants or radio stations, who find themselves in perfect storms.  Our neighbors need the extraordinary process that interrupts sectional loyalties and goes way past “natural” loyalties. They need someone, in fact a community of “someones,” to break tribal boundaries and offer a hand up out of the chaos of their perfect storms.

As the old Bruce Cockburn song says, they’re waiting for a miracle: the miracle that happens when our attention is fixed, even for a moment, on the fact that because we share the planet and our days with them, the hungry and homeless are somehow miraculously and wonderfully a part of each of us.

They need responses beyond tribes, elections, and platitudes. Our neighbors need the miracle and true synergy of community response, starting with the life jackets that will help them navigate their perfect storms -- food, clothing, education, options, housing, basic care.

Count this your invitation to be part of a social miracle right where you are.

“No” as a First Response?

I remember walking the streets of Omaha a long time ago with John, a mentor who was coaching me on encountering the homeless. He simply said, “When they ask you for something, don’t think money. Think lunch. Otherwise you could end up paying for someone’s self-destruction.”

And as if to prove John’s point, up walked Danny. Mid-twenties, greasy hair, dumbfounded look, hugging a dirty trenchcoat around a neon green t-shirt, ragged khakis, untied hightop tennis shoes. Virtually every stereotypical detail of a down-and-outer or an underground punk rocker of the day.

“Hey, midster.” Danny sounded like he was talking through a thick head cold, and maybe he was. Then he lost his balance and bounced into me. Even in my rookie year of street stuff, I recognized the pungent smell of alcohol and sweat bleeding through his pores. Now nose-to-nose with me Danny asked, “Got two bucks so I can get some cigarettes?”

John didn’t trust my resolve at the time, so he spoke up. “Nope, we don’t have any cash to give away today. But we can buy you lunch somewhere around here if you like.”

I was convinced Danny would say no to the offer and be on his way. Instead, he looked around at the restaurant options on the block and, pointing to a working man’s diner, said, “There.”

So began an eight-year interface with Danny. We started by sharing meals and coffee. Then came the process of encouraging Danny to dry out. Then we helped Danny move into an apartment, and then setting up a shoeshine stand. Often he thrived. Sometimes he stumbled. He helped us pack boxes when my family moved from Omaha to Colorado Springs.

Because he doesn’t read, write, or have a phone, we keep up on Danny mostly through mutual friends. To this day, Danny’s life doesn’t look much like a Hallmark movie ending. But he’s still in his apartment, and still working the shoeshine stand, and sober.

Therefore, in what could be a very unpopular position with some reading this blog I am going to endorse, with confidence, the “common wisdom” answer to a common question when encountering people who self-identify as being homeless.

Here’s the question: If someone who appears to be (or self-identifies as being) homeless personally asks me for money, should I give it?

Here’s the common wisdom answer: No. I agree, and make no mistake, I understand that saying “no” to this question has been characterized as being unfeeling, or at least lacking a sense of solidarity with the homeless. Such could be the case if one uses “No” as a response to shut off all contact and conversation with the homeless.

However, what if you said “No” about forking over cash and quickly followed up with, “But I’ll buy you lunch if you have the time,” and then actually shared lunch with them? Or, “Let me drive you to a place that can really help you out,” and then drove them to the local rescue mission to introduce them to someone there who helps homeless people every day?

Of course, you’d have to be ready to follow through with both the time and resources. And you’d really need to be ready to carry on a conversation -- and maybe even develop the beginning of a relationship. You’d take a few moments to offer a neighbor a better way to cope with life, and possibly restore horizons of possibilities they’ve long ago forgotten.

I used to buy my way out of encounters of any length with homeless people by saying “yes” to their first ask for money. Yet Danny’s transformation began with a “no” to his initial ask for money. That’s because, in this case, “no” was the launching pad into contact and conversation that produced the long-term help Danny needed to battle and conquer homelessness.

It’s gut-check time. Are you up for saying “no” so you can offer a better way, maybe even a supportive presence, to a neighbor in need?