How the other half lives
Last night, I got back from a service trip to St. Francis Inn in Philadelphia. The Inn began in 1979 to respond to glut of homeless populations in Kensington from closing factories. One can still see the ruins of industry along America, a six-lane highway flanked by graffitied walls, broken windows, garbage, and rubble. The street seems like a post-apocalyptic highway during the day. Humans are scarce. Weeds choke the cracked sidewalks. No businesses or houses break the monotony of broken walls and barren sidewalk. Cars flit by in distant intervals.
Once a grand vision, it now marks the border of the "Badlands," one of the most impoverished and lawless sections of the city.
Since 1979, the Inn, staffed by friars, laypeople, and Franciscan Volunteers, has grown. Each day, a flood of guests come for a hot meal, bags of bread, baby supplies, toiletries, meat, and attention. They take their tickets at the door, and the maitre d' assigns them seats. The server takes the tickets and brings the food. Guests can take as long as they wish, or, as many do, they can dump the food in plastic bags and take off.
The variety astounded me. All religions, all races. Some looked to be moderately poor, while others, clad in stained second-hand fabric, looked to be from the dirty blacktop itself. Some were articulate, others silent. Many were mentally ill, including one man named "Rambo" who has been going to the Inn for at least 12 years. He flexed his muscles and told me he could punch a whole in the wall and shoot lasers from his eyes. I told him not too.
The rush of people--I served 28 during the 11:00-1:00 stretch--prevented extended conversation. And most didn't want to talk. They wanted food and someone around who cared. In sum, we served 325 people Saturday, a similar number Sunday.
On Sunday, I went with Br. Fred and a Franciscan volunteer to deliver to houses. Fred wove the van through the narrow streets, navigating one-ways, bad drivers, and sharp turns. We hit five houses in total, families who could not come to the kitchen for whatever reason and met the requirements for monthly home deliveries.
At our second stop, in the Badlands, I hauled a box of food up a narrow stairway into a room with a single mattress on the floor, an old refrigerator, and a few odd appliances on countertops. The rest was clothing and toys strewn across the floor. The woman had a young girl, scared to see us.
Both in the Inn and on the visits, the people (for the most part) were very grateful. One Spanish woman blessed us after we delivered the food, blessing the lives we led and our days ahead.
No individuals stick out. No events stick out. The whole experiences leaves a wave of smells, sights, and feelings that distill a sense of humanity that I can't describe. Seeing homeless beneath the ariel train when I look out the chapel window, falling to sleep with sirens, feeling the bars on the windows, seeing the joy in the faces of the volunteers, it all washes together.
The only image that came to mind was Dr. Rieux, from The Plague. Seeing the suffering and poverty around me, I was moved to compassion because I saw living beings suffer. I needed no religion, no motive, no dream, no grand purpose underlying my actions. The suffering alone merited service, just as a mother takes her crying infant in her arms and rocks the child to sleep.
Fed by the sweating volunteers around me and the smiles and words of the people I served, I too was served, taken back to my human roots. Poverty is a painful physical reality that reveals the reality we all share: a broken world, flawed by loss and isolation. Our own hearts are often broken, whether we survive with a single mattress pad and an old fridge or in a well-furnished tudor, whether we are mentally ill or sane, whether we are Christian or atheist, black or white, man or woman, criminal or lawful.
We are human and the broken hearts we bear are part of that condition. To deny that in others or ourselves is to deny our own humanity, our own souls.
It is easy to say that it's "their" problem when we see a drug addict on the road and pass by. It's easy to say there's nothing I can do when we see the weight of statistics or the endless bodies crumpled on stoop after stoop. It's easy to cutback on social services because people abuse the system and waste "our" money.
In that case, walk the streets, hear the sirens down the road, the crying children in the windows. See the syringes lying by the dried out trees, the weather-beaten faces and greasy hair. Smell the urine and the garbage.
Those questions and doubts mean nothing--no matter their validity--when your own soul rises in your chest and you feel the broken hearts beating all around you. The only worthwhile question becomes, "How can I help?"
Once a grand vision, it now marks the border of the "Badlands," one of the most impoverished and lawless sections of the city.
Since 1979, the Inn, staffed by friars, laypeople, and Franciscan Volunteers, has grown. Each day, a flood of guests come for a hot meal, bags of bread, baby supplies, toiletries, meat, and attention. They take their tickets at the door, and the maitre d' assigns them seats. The server takes the tickets and brings the food. Guests can take as long as they wish, or, as many do, they can dump the food in plastic bags and take off.
The variety astounded me. All religions, all races. Some looked to be moderately poor, while others, clad in stained second-hand fabric, looked to be from the dirty blacktop itself. Some were articulate, others silent. Many were mentally ill, including one man named "Rambo" who has been going to the Inn for at least 12 years. He flexed his muscles and told me he could punch a whole in the wall and shoot lasers from his eyes. I told him not too.
The rush of people--I served 28 during the 11:00-1:00 stretch--prevented extended conversation. And most didn't want to talk. They wanted food and someone around who cared. In sum, we served 325 people Saturday, a similar number Sunday.
On Sunday, I went with Br. Fred and a Franciscan volunteer to deliver to houses. Fred wove the van through the narrow streets, navigating one-ways, bad drivers, and sharp turns. We hit five houses in total, families who could not come to the kitchen for whatever reason and met the requirements for monthly home deliveries.
At our second stop, in the Badlands, I hauled a box of food up a narrow stairway into a room with a single mattress on the floor, an old refrigerator, and a few odd appliances on countertops. The rest was clothing and toys strewn across the floor. The woman had a young girl, scared to see us.
Both in the Inn and on the visits, the people (for the most part) were very grateful. One Spanish woman blessed us after we delivered the food, blessing the lives we led and our days ahead.
No individuals stick out. No events stick out. The whole experiences leaves a wave of smells, sights, and feelings that distill a sense of humanity that I can't describe. Seeing homeless beneath the ariel train when I look out the chapel window, falling to sleep with sirens, feeling the bars on the windows, seeing the joy in the faces of the volunteers, it all washes together.
The only image that came to mind was Dr. Rieux, from The Plague. Seeing the suffering and poverty around me, I was moved to compassion because I saw living beings suffer. I needed no religion, no motive, no dream, no grand purpose underlying my actions. The suffering alone merited service, just as a mother takes her crying infant in her arms and rocks the child to sleep.
Fed by the sweating volunteers around me and the smiles and words of the people I served, I too was served, taken back to my human roots. Poverty is a painful physical reality that reveals the reality we all share: a broken world, flawed by loss and isolation. Our own hearts are often broken, whether we survive with a single mattress pad and an old fridge or in a well-furnished tudor, whether we are mentally ill or sane, whether we are Christian or atheist, black or white, man or woman, criminal or lawful.
We are human and the broken hearts we bear are part of that condition. To deny that in others or ourselves is to deny our own humanity, our own souls.
It is easy to say that it's "their" problem when we see a drug addict on the road and pass by. It's easy to say there's nothing I can do when we see the weight of statistics or the endless bodies crumpled on stoop after stoop. It's easy to cutback on social services because people abuse the system and waste "our" money.
In that case, walk the streets, hear the sirens down the road, the crying children in the windows. See the syringes lying by the dried out trees, the weather-beaten faces and greasy hair. Smell the urine and the garbage.
Those questions and doubts mean nothing--no matter their validity--when your own soul rises in your chest and you feel the broken hearts beating all around you. The only worthwhile question becomes, "How can I help?"