What Difference Do It Make?

by Ron Hall

  I was sho ’nough happy to hear that story ’cause it shows that even if you bless some needy person just a little bit, God might use other folks down the line to weave your little gift into a bigger blessin. And if you bless folks, you gon’ get the blessin back, no matter what they does with the money. So you give the gift with no strings attached, and let God take care a’ business on the other end.

  25

  Ron

  Denver spoke slowly and deliberately, keeping me pinned with that eyeball, ignoring the Starbucks groupies coming and going on the patio around us. “I heard that when white folks go fishin they do something called ‘catch and release.’ . . . That really bothers me,” Denver went on. “I just can’t figure it out. ’Cause when colored folks go fishin, we really proud of what we catch, and we take it and show it off to everybody that’ll look. Then we eat what we catch . . . in other words, we use it to sustain us. So it really bothers me that white folks would go to all that trouble to catch a fish, then when they done caught it, just throw it back in the water” . . .

  Denver looked away, searching the blue autumn sky, the locked onto me again with that drill-bit stare. “So, Mr. Ron, it occurred to me: If you is fishin for a friend you just gon’ catch and release, then I ain’t got no desire to be your friend . . . But if you is lookin for a real friend, then I’ll be one. Forever.”

  Heading into 2009, I had noticed a trend in the cities we visited. Almost every one of them has a strategic “ten-year plan” for ending homelessness. These plans usually involve building more housing (as though the problem is that there are more people than buildings) and more government facilities for the treatment of addiction and mental-health issues (as though there aren’t already enough programs).

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad the problem of homelessness is on the government’s radar. It’s just that the problem of homelessness will never be solved by government. That’s because government can put a roof over a man’s head and food in his mouth and even give him a job. But government can neither love a man nor lovingly hold him accountable. The chronically homeless, whether homeless through tragic circumstance or through messes of their own making, have a whole constellation of inner issues that food, shelter, and a paycheck won’t fix.

  Like Denver says, “If folks like me had the ability to do what folks like you be tellin us to do, we’d a’ already done it.”

  The chronically homeless need love, compassion, accountability, and someone to come alongside them and hold them steady as they limp along the winding, pitted road to wholeness.

  After I’d encountered several ten-year plans that were already on year two or three with no real progress, I began to ask two questions of people who attended our Same Kind of Different events: “How many homeless are in this city?” and “How many churches are in this city?”

  Interestingly, most of the time there are more churches than homeless. And if you count synagogues, temples, mosques, and other communities of faith with a spiritual mandate to care for the poor, the number of cities in which the faithful outnumber the homeless is likely near 100 percent.

  After I ask audiences the question about the number of faith communities versus the number of homeless in their city, I present to them what I call the Thirty-Day Plan to End Homelessness. It goes like this: How about if your pastor or rabbi or priest or imam motivates his or her congregation to adopt one chronically homeless person. Each body of believers, whether it’s fifty or a thousand strong, would assume collective responsibility for taking in one person and loving that person back into society.

  Let’s pretend for a moment that this person’s name is Joe and the body of believers is the First Baptist Church (“FBC”), a congregation of three hundred people. The first order of business would be, of course, to befriend Joe. Bless him with a few dollars, take him to coffee or maybe a meal here and there—always in pairs, in public, and never in a way that could physically endanger church members, of course. While some members of the church do this work of outreach, others could check Joe’s background. In a church of three hundred, there are likely law enforcement and social services personnel who could make sure Joe is not too dangerous a character to take under the church’s wing.

  I want to be clear about this: loving people does not mean ignoring realities on the ground. Remember the woman in Seattle Denver told you about who invited a formerly homeless man, a stranger, into her home and was blessed? Deborah and I did the same thing, and it changed our lives. But you can’t go down that road blindly. Some homeless people really are dangerous.

  Last year, a young man in Dallas who had decided he was going to help the homeless started working in the inner city. One day he offered a homeless man a ride in his car, and the man killed him. In another case, a wealthy woman picked up a vagrant and offered him work in her home. When they got to her house, he stabbed her.

  So it’s important to realize that for every man reformed after being treated to twenty bucks and a Big Chicken Dinner, there is another hard case. Does that mean every homeless person is likely a killer? Absolutely not. But it does mean that those who reach out to the homeless, many of whom are mentally ill, should exercise caution.

  I remember one time when I was out in the ’hood, talking with some of the homeless fellows I’d gotten to know. I was leaning up next to a vacant building, shooting the breeze, when the other guys spotted a familiar face sneaking around the corner.

  “Watch out!” one of them said. “Here comes ol’ Devil Woman.” Within seconds, a filthy woman in flashy clothes appeared before us like an apparition, rasping at us in a deep, gravel-filled voice that didn’t sound like it could possibly belong to her. I later told Deborah she sounded like the devil himself. Ol’ Devil Woman was petite and might even have been attractive except for the drug craze she was manifesting.

  She leaned into my face. “I-was-a-schoolteacher,” she said in a rapid-fire jive. “Who-you? Who-you? Who-you?”

  That scared me so bad I wanted to jump and run. But strangely, her fast jive talk drew men like a homing signal, and she captivated them with flattery, hoping one would reward her with a free fix. “Eeeeew, ain’t-you-handsome? Ain’t-you-handsome? Bet-you-could-take-care-a-me-real-good.”

  I warned the homeless friend I had gone there to talk to—who was trying to stay sober and get off the streets—not to fall under her spell.

  He laughed and assured me, “Ain’t no way!”

  Sensing the presence of evil, I slipped away and headed home.

  A few days later, while dishing out spaghetti at home, we heard my friend was in jail. Ol’ Devil Woman had apparently awakened some old demons in him. I heard the two of them had been arrested only a couple of blocks away from where I last saw them. She was in the hospital near death from stab wounds, and he was in jail for attempted murder, the consequences of drug addiction.

  Denver is a civilized fellow now, but I remember that for months when I first knew him, I thought he might kill me. Deborah and I actually broke a cardinal rule of mission volunteering when we gave Denver our phone number and told him where we lived. Thanks to Deborah’s boldness and heart, it turned out well for us and for many others who have been touched by our story. So I would never counsel you to hold back from helping out of fear. Just remember what Jesus told His disciples when He sent them out to reach the lost: “Be wise as serpents and harmless as doves.”

  But there’s another side to this safety issue—because while FBC is carefully gauging whether Joe is a safe person to be around, Joe is watching to see whether FBC people are safe themselves. Will they catch and release him? Will FBC come on strong at first, then gradually slack off until Joe only sees them on holidays?

  Homeless people are used to people who “help” with one hand and hold their noses with the other. They are used to catch-and-release friends, who feel warm and fuzzy and compassionate for a few days or weeks but then abandon their efforts when the going gets tough or when the busyness of their own lives takes over
.

  Will FBC be faithful to tend their relationship with Joe? Will they keep his confidences as he confesses the hardship and/or wrongdoing that put him on the streets? Joe will be watching for the same thing every other human being watches for before committing to a potentially life-changing relation-ship: trustworthiness.

  Once the relationship is established, is it possible that FBC could go the next step and get Joe off the streets? Could he stay in a room at the church? Could FBC members chip in twenty dollars a month apiece to rent him a room elsewhere? What about food? Can the FBC women’s ministry—or the men’s group—stock the refrigerator wherever Joe is staying?

  “Well,” you might be saying, “none of this requires Joe to do anything, to accept any responsibility.”

  Exactly! What FBC is offering Joe is unconditional love. Part of real love is loving a person from dependence to independence. But if that is to come, it will come in time. What the Joes of the world need first is a taste of dignity, someone to love them enough to take a chance on them.

  Is it possible that Joe will freeload for a while, take advantage of the situation, then split? It’s not only possible but likely, at least for a little while. The chronically homeless are often addicts, petty thieves, and practiced at the art of the small con. You don’t survive on the streets by being an upright citizen.

  But if Joe turns out to be unable to follow through on real change, that’s fine too. FBC has done what God called it to do. Jesus said we will be judged by how we treat the hungry, the thirsty, the prisoner, the stranger. We are judged by our compassion, how we live our lives, not by how Joe ultimately lives his. God commands us to love, not to calculate the end game. It is only when Joe is loved without strings that he is set free to (even-tually) turn a corner and voluntarily become accountable to those who have placed faith in him.

  Moving on in the thirty-day plan, think of the no-cost resources available in a single church. Doctors who can provide medical care. Licensed counselors who can provide mental-health assistance. Teachers who can help Joe brush up his reading, writing, and math skills or help him study for his driver’s license exam. Social services workers who can help Joe secure the essential documentation he needs and navigate intimidating places like the social-security office, county clerk, and the most terrifying place of all—the Department of Motor Vehicles.

  Here’s something else a community of faith can do that the government can’t: give Joe a job. While I was walking the streets of Fort Worth, I ran into former chefs, construction workers, personnel managers, auto mechanics, executives, skilled military technicians, and stonemasons like José. Homelessness does not confine itself to the unskilled. In a single church, there are bound to be people who, if they can’t employ Joe directly, know someone who can. If there aren’t, maybe Joe would be willing to do general maintenance of the church facility itself, paid for out of the church’s mercy fund or by collective, specifically earmarked contributions of members.

  If one person tried to take on Joe, the task would be daunting, overwhelming, as I can tell you from experience. But many hands make light work. And within each body of believers, there are endless caregiving possibilities that, unlike government programs, can be customized according to need. You see, in this case it really does take a village.

  So far I haven’t heard of any takers on my thirty-day plan. I chalk that up to two very human factors: excuses and fear. When I first started going to the mission with Debbie, I was far too busy to go—in my own mind, that is. I had plenty of excuses not to go: teenagers to tend, art to sell, clients to schmooze, accounts to manage, and many, many toys that clearly needed use and maintenance. I only went with Debbie because I wanted to be a good husband, having been such a lousy one years before.

  Even then, I was afraid. Of being somehow victimized. Of being stabbed, maybe, or shot—or only robbed if I was lucky. While Debbie chatted with Chef Jim during our first trip to the Union Gospel Mission, the list of rashes, bugs, and parasites I just knew were ready to attach themselves to me out of thin air rivaled the entire database at the Center for Disease Control.

  Today, I’m so glad that guilt overcame my fear and that Debbie’s passion for the poor eclipsed all my arrogant and convenient excuses.

  Denver says, “You got to stoop down to help a man up.” But after the homeless began to bless me much more than I blessed them, after my heart started to warm to the task, I realized that God didn’t command us to love only for the sake of others but for our own sakes as well.

  MICHAEL

  Entertaining Angels

  This fella named Michael from Waco, Texas, wrote to us after he read our story, said he used to be pretty hard on homeless people. Now he’s takin a homeless man to church. It’s kinda sad, though, ’cause Michael says the other folks in the church look at him and his homeless friend like they is a coupla skunks.

  That’s what he says: “Skunks.”

  Ain’t that somethin? I guess some folks still thinks people got to clean themselves up on the outside before God can get busy cleanin up the inside. That ain’t true at all. God specializes in turnin trash into treasure.

  Michael said his new homeless friend don’t trust the folks in the church, but that he is startin to trust Michael, went out to breakfast with him same as that time I went to that restaurant with Mr. Ron for the first time. Purty soon, Michael says, this homeless fella started openin up with his story. After that, one a’ Michael’s friends told him, said maybe that homeless fella was Jesus in disguise.

  That might not be far off the truth. Jesus said whatever we does to the lowliest people, it’s like we done it to him. And remember them angels Abraham entertained? They looked like your everday strangers, just some stray fellas travelin on down the road. But Abraham and his wife went on and treated ’em like honored guests. We needs to take a lesson from that. You never know whose eyes God is watchin you through. It might not be your teacher, your preacher, or your Sunday school teacher. More likely it’s gon’ be that bum on the street.

  26

  Ron

  A week after Christmas, the nursing home staff told me Daddy was going down fast. On the third day of January 2009, after an hour-long meeting with hospice, I said, as gently as I could, “Daddy, you understand, don’t you, that you don’t have too much longer on this earth?”

  “Hell, yes!” he said. “I’m ninety-one years old, I got cancer, and I can’t eat, but you ain’t talkin to no dummy!”

  “How about the two of us going for one last hurrah?” I said. “You just tell me where you want to go and what you want to do. Your wish will be granted, just like on that old TV show, King for a Day.”

  Dad didn’t hesitate. “Take me home,” he said. “I want to sit out on my porch, drink good whiskey, and smoke cigars.”

  Of course, every one of Dad’s requests, from going off the grounds without permission to ingesting harmful chemicals, broke most of the rules posted on the board at the nurses’ station. However, I figured that for an old bird about to take his last flight, rules were meant to be broken.

  Working quietly, I helped him into a wheelchair. Then I opened the door to his room, wheeled him casually past the nurses’ station and out the front door, triggering an alarm that sounded like I’d just touched off a three-engine fire.

  Dad just smiled and waved adios.

  “You’re gonna get your ass in deep trouble, Buddy-roo,” he said as I loaded his skinny butt into the front seat of my Range Rover.

  I smiled slyly. “Do I look like I care?”

  “No,” he allowed.

  “Do you care if I get you in trouble?”

  A great big grin split his wrinkled face from ear to ear.

  “Hell, no!”

  We laughed like Butch and Sundance on the edge of that cliff just before they jumped.

  Steering the Range Rover one-handed, I punched up my brother, John, on my cell phone and told him to meet us at Daddy and Mama’s house. Then I called the neighbors I’d
known most of my life. “I’m bringing Daddy home for a last hurrah. Y’all come on over and say good-bye.” On the way home, I stopped at a tobacco shop and bought five Romeo and Juliet cigars.

  When we pulled up to the house, I carried Dad up to the front porch and set him in his wrought-iron rocking chair. As the neighbors started to filter over, I ducked inside to look for his whiskey.

  I didn’t have to look far. Right there in the front room, in the middle of the coffee table, like the centerpiece at a holiday banquet, sat the gallon of Jack Daniels Black Label I’d given Daddy for Christmas the year he turned ninety.

  No reason for him to keep saving this now, I thought. I stepped into my parents’ tiny linoleum kitchen to rustle up an icy glass of Coke, then broke the seal on the Jack and poured my dad a drink.

  On the porch, we lit up our ten-dollar cigars and remem-bered: the West Fourth Street slums . . . donkey basketball . . . the time a runaway horse pitched Daddy over a fence near the creek where we used to go crawdad fishing . . . and that feisty little Rusty Fay who used to ride down the street in a halter top on the back of her wrestler husband’s Harley, driving all the neighborhood men wild whenever the bike hit a bump.

  Earl’s eyes grew warm and misty, whether from wistful reminiscing or the Jack Daniels, I wasn’t sure.

  “Boys,” he said, “I’m proud of you.”

  John and I exchanged glances, telegraphing our surprise over hearing our daddy finally say something we’d longed to hear all our lives.

  David, the neighbor who’d ratted Daddy out for taking mysterious truck trips, ambled over. Leaning up against a porch post, he said, “Earl, you made it to ninety-one, and you’re sitting on your front porch with your two sons, sipping whiskey and smoking cigars. It couldn’t get no better, could it?”