Ponderings

As I entered adulthood, married life and ministry (roughly all at the same time) my friend, Allene, shared with me scrap of a paper bag with a bit of calligraphy.

“There are two ways to have enough. One is to acquire greater wealth. The other is to acquire fewer needs.”

I have returned to this simple wisdom repeatedly over the years, but it failed me this week.

On Saturday I was startled to discover a young man trying to sneak out of my office. He was vaguely familiar, he had come into the office some months back for no apparent reason. As the story unfolded, I discovered that this young man has been sleeping in the church, perhaps for some time. He doesn’t take anything, doesn’t hurt anyone. He is very uncomfortable with people (hence he avoids the shelter system.). I talked with him at length that day, and again on Sunday, and again on Monday. I fretted, pleaded, and made introductions with outreach coordinators. But it wasn’t enough. Still he snuck in, still he made his bed on my couch. Ultimately we’ve changed the locks and contacted the Webster Police to enforce our “no sleeping rule”.

The staff and leadership have been incredibly patient both with this young man and with my angst about an appropriate response. But everybody has limits, and I think this pushed us all to the edge. The stark reality was that the legitimate needs of all concerned were not going to be met.

I find myself angry with the young man. The anger’s source surprises me, it stems not from the violation of boundaries that was so palpable and troubling. Anger regarding the trespassing would be a reasonable response, but the emotion triggered instead was sympathy. Sympathy is not as well defended as anger, and all too quickly I became emotionally entangled in this young man’s plight. The anger that eluded me on Saturday came to my rescue too late and only added to the emotional turmoil of the week.

Pulling at the jumble I sense a familiarity with the anger that finally arrived. It’s the anger I feel when I’ve given the best that I have to offer and it is deemed to be inadequate. It’s the parental defense when our children’s needs exceed our capacity. It’s the last line of emotional defense to protect us from the pernicious fear of inadequacy. Recognizing the anger, I find myself face to face with finitude.

Whatever grace might exist for this young man is not in my purview. I can chose to believe in possibility, but the facts testify to an alternate reality. Sustained hope for the millions of homeless mentally ill Americans is as illusive as peace in the Middle East. Shelters are anathema to those who are truly frightened, so too the concept of hospitalization. And should I succeed in coaxing this young man into ‘treatment’, the tragic reality is that the tremendous strides in pharmaceuticals for mental health are not cures. Whatever treatment might be helpful for the homeless mentally ill require access to a healthcare system that is beyond their reach and dependent upon familial support that for many never existed. At what point does illusive become impossible?

And herein lies the real test of faith.