Below, I will describe a number of the “experiments” we, as a ministry to the homeless, attempted and their outcomes. As they apply, I will describe the issue we saw, the experiment we attempted, the challenges that came up, our failures, our success and what lesson we learned.
1. Meal with discussions
We opened our apartment for daily meals with the homeless. We were not interested in preaching, but in listening and exploring the culture of the homeless, learning their language and understanding their life experiences as they described it. We would pray with people and sometimes give counsel, but we rarely preached the gospel. A challenge was how much time this took away from our family. We learned that we needed to have a separate family night once a week. This program was so successful that we incorporate a meal with fellowship in every meeting we have.
2. Meal in Church
We transferred our ministry in our home to a church context, having a meal first once then twice a week. For our first meal, we advertised with a notice on telephone poles within a one mile radius of the church. From that time on, we relied only on word of mouth. We invited other church people to eat with the homeless and needy and eat with them, even as we had done. Most church folks, we found, were very uncomfortable conversing with the homeless and they felt that people weren’t “getting converted” fast enough. Although the meals were bringing many people into the church, the church after a number of years closed the program down because of what they saw as a lack of spiritual opportunity.
3. Becoming homeless/poor
At the time of the church meal, I was called by the Lord to quit my job, have my family and I become homeless living in other’s living rooms and depend on God without an income, focusing all my energy on ministering to the homeless. Financially, we did not ask for donations, but waited on the Lord for what He would provide for us. This gave us opportunity to learn from the homeless community how to live like the homeless, eating meals where they ate and learning to get by as people of the lowest income.
4. Bible Study
During one of the meals, I began a bible study in a separate room. Every week there were very few who were interested, and even those who came didn’t show a lot of interest in the study. After a few months, I discontinued it.
5. Inviting homeless to church
During the church meal, we would invite some to participate in the main service of the church on Sunday morning. Most would claim that they had nothing good to wear, and others would just say they couldn’t, without giving reason why. A few did join the service, but most of them were either uncomfortable or acted inappropriately for the middle class context. But the church did speak to a few and they still attend the services to this day. The church eventually asked us to stop our ministry among the homeless community.
6. Becoming our own congregation
After no longer having a place for our homeless ministry, we decided to continue our meals but to add a church service and to make the homeless ministry its own congregation. We began meeting in a Salvation Army building once a week, and had a service after an hour of our meal. Most people left at first when the service began, but as time went on, more and more people began to stay. Today, we have about 40 people a week coming to the service in Gresham.
7. Meeting in Salvation Army
Salvation Army offered us a small building to serve our meals and to have our service in. During that time on occasion if they had a project, they would try to cancel our ministry with only a day’s notice. Eventually they gave us a 30 day notice. We learned that we should meet in a church that understood and appreciated our vision of how to help the homeless.
8. Meals with service
In SA, we had worship that would come from the meal. At first we switched chairs to be more like a congregation, but eventually we found that people were more comfortable sitting at tables. Giving an opportunity to worship after a meal was good in two ways: first of all it gave many an opportunity to worship God who otherwise wouldn’t take the opportunity (many begin participating in worship because they felt they needed to “pay” for their meal). Secondly, people felt that we were more noble than the missions and churches who forced people to sit though a service to get a meal.
9. Scripture
Scripture was central to our worship. We would have a long Scripture reading in every service, containing a variety of scriptures and the sermons would always be focused on Scripture, not themes or stories, although the points were pretty basic. Given the basic conservative viewpoint of the homeless community, this was a big positive. And it also gave many of the folks to read Scripture and so participate.
10. Sermon participation
Because many who attended the service were mentally ill or socially handicapped, many would feel free to “talk back” or even argue with the preacher. So we incorporated discussions during the sermon time. This gives me an opportunity to get instant feedback from the congregation to see what they are understanding and to even change the direction of the sermon in the middle if necessary.
11. Music
With our worship we had a music leader who would very simply play guitar and lead people in choruses and short hymns. Few people would actually sing, but culturally it felt more like a service and less like a Bible Study. Eventually, it was said by some that they would find themselves singing the music all week long and the Lord spoke to them through the songs. Music is significant in about half of our ministry times right now.
12. Donations
Many homeless mentioned how the “passing of a plate” felt like a requirement to give to the church and was a very negative experience for them. We decided not to ask for money, so we wouldn’t be equated with greedy preachers or churches. This meant that our ministry was supported by donations without being asked. Some from both inside and outside the congregation gave as God’s Spirit led them. We also had some who offered us food and clothing on a regular basis. Many of these donors continue to provide for our meals to this day. We learned that the ministry can be provided for by just requesting God.
Above are the earliest years, from 1995-2000.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
What's Wrong With Asking What's Wrong?
An excellent article by the Chalmer's Center, educating ministers to the poor:
http://www.chalmers.org/staging/mandate/april_2008/from_the_director.php
http://www.chalmers.org/staging/mandate/april_2008/from_the_director.php
The Use of Privilege
How can you not use your privilege for your own benefit. That negates the inherent nature of privilege as a social entity and dynamic and (wrongly) reduces it to an individual choice dynamic.
If you are white, you will receive preferential treatment by store clerks, loan officers, real estate agents, police/military and other white people generally.
The intention of using your privilege as a white person to do some kind of good work does not prevent or mitigate this at all. Privilege is usually a social structure that is used whether one likes it or not, precisely because it is social and not individual.
Things like not working for a company that cheats people their wages. This isn’t possible. All companies cheat people of their wages. If I am selling a chair, I must pay my employee that makes the chair less than the value of the chair my employee produces. I must keep some of the value she/he produces for myself. In fact, I must keep a lot of the value my employees produce in making the chairs. That is how business owners become rich while their employees producing the value just make ends meet.
Having the privilege to run a business under capitalism is by definition exploitation.
In this sense, and I believe this is the correct frame to analyze this, most of the list is negated in its practical application to the real world. The impulse is admirable, though.
-Inegmar
I’d like to think this discussion is more than an admirable impulse.
It’s one thing to use power. We all do it. It’s the way our world works. It’s quite another thing to use your power at the expense of shaming or degrading someone else. THAT is what Paul is talking about.
It’s a tall order, that is for sure. But, it is the call we have. So, I plan to work towards that “admirable” goal.
-Amy
Inegmar, it seems that you are taking an unnessessarily fatalistic approach to privilege.
First of all, I want to reiterate that privilege is something that is shared by most people, just in different areas. Perhaps one person is of color, but male, thus he has both privilege and oppression. Another person is female but educated. Another person is wealthy but homosexual. Another person is poor but a citizen of the U.S. All of these people have a mix of both privilege and oppression– inate power and inate weakness. Thus they can understand both the mourning of oppression and the power of the oppressed, if they can see past the blinders of their culture which is communicating to them that they are “normal” or they are “victim”. For the most part, we all have power, we all have experienced loss.
Secondly, there are two types of privilege: that which we have, inately, and that which we use. I can’t help being white, and that naturally gives me certain privilege from birth. Most of us on this forum were born as citizens of the U.S. and that gives us an authority and a power that is there, wherever in the world we go. While this privilege gives us inate power, we can show that this power can be marginalized, if we choose it to. I could go to Bangladesh as a U.S. citizen and become a window washer with the poorest in Dhaka. My privilege is not gone– I am not any less an American or white– but over time I can show that my privilege is marginalized. I am contextualizing my inate privilege in a manner to associate with the lowest and to become one of them.
But there are other kinds of privilege that we can use– education, relationships with the powerful, finances, political power, inheritance, authority etc. The opportunity for this privilege is also innate, but this form of privilege is able to be directed. Our culture trains us to use this privilege in order to establish a “normal” existence, i.e. a privileged one. This is using privilege for our own benefit.
The Bible, however, teaches us that it is our responsibility to use what privilege we have to create justice, to create equity, to stop oppression, to create opportunities for those who do not have privilege.
And this, as I see it, is a choice, the choice that the Bible gives us. We can live to be consumers, live for the increase of our family and thus increase privilege for our generations after us. Or we can surrender the use of our privilege and give the use of it to those who do not have.
We cannot change who we are. But we can change who we serve.
Steve K
If you are white, you will receive preferential treatment by store clerks, loan officers, real estate agents, police/military and other white people generally.
The intention of using your privilege as a white person to do some kind of good work does not prevent or mitigate this at all. Privilege is usually a social structure that is used whether one likes it or not, precisely because it is social and not individual.
Things like not working for a company that cheats people their wages. This isn’t possible. All companies cheat people of their wages. If I am selling a chair, I must pay my employee that makes the chair less than the value of the chair my employee produces. I must keep some of the value she/he produces for myself. In fact, I must keep a lot of the value my employees produce in making the chairs. That is how business owners become rich while their employees producing the value just make ends meet.
Having the privilege to run a business under capitalism is by definition exploitation.
In this sense, and I believe this is the correct frame to analyze this, most of the list is negated in its practical application to the real world. The impulse is admirable, though.
-Inegmar
I’d like to think this discussion is more than an admirable impulse.
It’s one thing to use power. We all do it. It’s the way our world works. It’s quite another thing to use your power at the expense of shaming or degrading someone else. THAT is what Paul is talking about.
It’s a tall order, that is for sure. But, it is the call we have. So, I plan to work towards that “admirable” goal.
-Amy
Inegmar, it seems that you are taking an unnessessarily fatalistic approach to privilege.
First of all, I want to reiterate that privilege is something that is shared by most people, just in different areas. Perhaps one person is of color, but male, thus he has both privilege and oppression. Another person is female but educated. Another person is wealthy but homosexual. Another person is poor but a citizen of the U.S. All of these people have a mix of both privilege and oppression– inate power and inate weakness. Thus they can understand both the mourning of oppression and the power of the oppressed, if they can see past the blinders of their culture which is communicating to them that they are “normal” or they are “victim”. For the most part, we all have power, we all have experienced loss.
Secondly, there are two types of privilege: that which we have, inately, and that which we use. I can’t help being white, and that naturally gives me certain privilege from birth. Most of us on this forum were born as citizens of the U.S. and that gives us an authority and a power that is there, wherever in the world we go. While this privilege gives us inate power, we can show that this power can be marginalized, if we choose it to. I could go to Bangladesh as a U.S. citizen and become a window washer with the poorest in Dhaka. My privilege is not gone– I am not any less an American or white– but over time I can show that my privilege is marginalized. I am contextualizing my inate privilege in a manner to associate with the lowest and to become one of them.
But there are other kinds of privilege that we can use– education, relationships with the powerful, finances, political power, inheritance, authority etc. The opportunity for this privilege is also innate, but this form of privilege is able to be directed. Our culture trains us to use this privilege in order to establish a “normal” existence, i.e. a privileged one. This is using privilege for our own benefit.
The Bible, however, teaches us that it is our responsibility to use what privilege we have to create justice, to create equity, to stop oppression, to create opportunities for those who do not have privilege.
And this, as I see it, is a choice, the choice that the Bible gives us. We can live to be consumers, live for the increase of our family and thus increase privilege for our generations after us. Or we can surrender the use of our privilege and give the use of it to those who do not have.
We cannot change who we are. But we can change who we serve.
Steve K
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Fear of the Other
It is a basic principle for all creatures to fear that which is the same size or bigger than them, but different.
I have some pretty large rats in my backyard, and a cat. If the cat sees a rat, he will just let it pass by without even flinching, because they are about the same size. While the cat is made to attack creatures, they are only those that are smaller than them.
But then my cat saw an advantage. The rat was focused on something else for a while, ignoring the cat. So the cat saw that he had the upper hand and attacked the rat, wounding it, playing with it and then killing it.
Thus:
Difference and equal power equates fear.
Fear leads to anxiety
Anxiety seeks advantage over fear.
Anxiety attacts the object of fear.
Those of other race not only look different, but more importantly, they hold to different mores and cultural presuppositions than one. Because those of other race have a population that could potentially harm one’s own race, and it is different, the other race is an object of fear. "They might insist that we follow their ways."-- this translates into core racist language "They have taken over our cities"; "They have conspired to control us economically."; "They will blemish our civilization." These are all statements of anxiety.
Those in fear/anxiety will then seek an advantage-- economically, militarily, politically, etc-- to make themselves "bigger". Once they feel safe, they will attack that which caused them fear. This is primarily to give them and their society freedom from the anxiety they have been feeling. Once the object of anxiety is completely subdued or destroyed, then the original society can feel safe.
This is the pattern you can find in Nazi Germany, in Israel/Palestine and in Rwanda. And it is the basic pattern of the relationship between the homeless and the middle class. There is fear between the social groups. The homeless fear the middle classes power over them. The middle class fear the homeless' violence and create myths about the homeless due to their ignorance. The middle class say that the homeless are more prone to drugs, alcohol, mental illness and violence. For the most part, however, this is not true.
So when young people and the police attack the homeless, it is for their own protection. They fear, thus they must attack in order to create security.
If we want to be rid of racial/cultural/social prejudice, we need to create opportunities for open relationship between the opposing groups. In familiarity and relationship, fear disappears. Once both sides recognize the other as humans with needs and desires like them, there is the possibility to compromise for the sake of peace for both sides.
I have some pretty large rats in my backyard, and a cat. If the cat sees a rat, he will just let it pass by without even flinching, because they are about the same size. While the cat is made to attack creatures, they are only those that are smaller than them.
But then my cat saw an advantage. The rat was focused on something else for a while, ignoring the cat. So the cat saw that he had the upper hand and attacked the rat, wounding it, playing with it and then killing it.
Thus:
Difference and equal power equates fear.
Fear leads to anxiety
Anxiety seeks advantage over fear.
Anxiety attacts the object of fear.
Those of other race not only look different, but more importantly, they hold to different mores and cultural presuppositions than one. Because those of other race have a population that could potentially harm one’s own race, and it is different, the other race is an object of fear. "They might insist that we follow their ways."-- this translates into core racist language "They have taken over our cities"; "They have conspired to control us economically."; "They will blemish our civilization." These are all statements of anxiety.
Those in fear/anxiety will then seek an advantage-- economically, militarily, politically, etc-- to make themselves "bigger". Once they feel safe, they will attack that which caused them fear. This is primarily to give them and their society freedom from the anxiety they have been feeling. Once the object of anxiety is completely subdued or destroyed, then the original society can feel safe.
This is the pattern you can find in Nazi Germany, in Israel/Palestine and in Rwanda. And it is the basic pattern of the relationship between the homeless and the middle class. There is fear between the social groups. The homeless fear the middle classes power over them. The middle class fear the homeless' violence and create myths about the homeless due to their ignorance. The middle class say that the homeless are more prone to drugs, alcohol, mental illness and violence. For the most part, however, this is not true.
So when young people and the police attack the homeless, it is for their own protection. They fear, thus they must attack in order to create security.
If we want to be rid of racial/cultural/social prejudice, we need to create opportunities for open relationship between the opposing groups. In familiarity and relationship, fear disappears. Once both sides recognize the other as humans with needs and desires like them, there is the possibility to compromise for the sake of peace for both sides.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
A Prison of Freedom
I've been lately thinking about homelessness as freedom, but a freedom one is forced to partake in. Sure, no one can tell you what to do or what to do with your money and there are fewer responsibilities, but almost every homeless person I know would be happy to limit their freedom some if only they could have a job or a place to store their stuff, or the chance to see their children. But, more often than not, they aren't given the choice to limit their freedom so they can experience more of what they want in their lives.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
My Life On Another Planet
Good news for the Charismaniacs! It’s your day!
Yep, see, I’m a Charismaniac too. This doesn’t mean that I yell and scream in services ( I don’t), nor that I’m a “dancer before the Lord” (I’m not) nor that I announce in public “thus saith the Lord” (well, I do this very rarely, but don’t hold it against me, please). The difference between Charismatics and non-Chrarismatics is that the non-Chrarismatic is content with the Bible and their worship services and their ethical standard. The Charismatic is not. The Charismatic wants to see God at work through miracles, power and direct speech. This doesn’t mean that the Charismatic neglects the Bible or ethics—not at all! But they want understanding and life and love directly from God’s power, experienced in their lives.
Now, back to our story. For as long as I have been a Christian, I have believed that God could speak to those who believed in Jesus. Why not? He spoke to the people in the Bible, when He wanted to, so why not now? So I just expected that God would speak to me. Perhaps that was arrogance on my part, assuming that God would WANT to speak to me, but, hey, I was a teenager. Yes, God made the world, but it revolves around ME. Anyway, I knew that if I asked God something, he would answer. So I knew that I was going to participate in missions—cross-cultural ministry in a country not my own. So I contacted a youth missions group called YWAM (the organization my friend and I wanted to join when we were sixteen) and said, “Where are you located?” They sent me a list of all of their bases, all over the world.
So I looked them over and told God—“God, I’m going to one of these places. I’ve chosen either Cyprus, India or Hong Kong. Which one of these do you want me to go to?” I’m sure that God remembered that I was only nineteen and so he didn’t project me into space in millions of unconnected particles. God, quite politely, (probably sniggering behind his omnipotent hand) answered, “India.” So it was decided, I thought. I’m going to India.
Of course, I had no money to do this or any experience of travelling solo outside of Southern California, but my ignorant arrogance knew no bounds. (I haven’t really changed much in this regard, although I consider myself to be less ignorant) I sent an application to Madras, India, and they wrote me back to send it to Calcutta, for they weren’t accepting foreigners. So I sent it to Calcutta so that I might be accepted to their six month discipleship school beginning in July. Meanwhile, I got a passport and asked for funds. Between my church and my father—who, amazingly, and perhaps naively, offered to pay for my airfare to Calcutta—my expenses were taken care of.
I was fully confident that I would be accepted by the school. As July loomed closer, however, my brick wall of assurance began to crack. By the end of June, the holes were big enough to drive a herd of elephants through it. By July 1, the first day of the school in India, I had almost put it out of my mind. Of course, that was the day my letter of acceptance arrived.
I spent about a half hour pacing, attempting to make a decision—I was actually rebuilding my wall of confidence, bricks, mortar and all. By the next day, my mother in tears, I was on a flight to San Francisco to obtain an Indian visa at the Embassy there (they told me it would take a week, but I sat in their office for a full working day and they gave me the visa just to get rid of me), and in less than five days after the letter arrived, I sat in Bangkok, Thailand. The telegram I had sent the folks in Calcutta said that I would arrive on Saturday. But the Calcutta airport was flooded, so I stayed overnight in a plush hotel (airline’s expense!) and slept away my jet lag. The next day I arrived in Dum Dum Airport (yes, that’s really the name of the airport in Calcutta—and they didn’t have a single lollipop!) and waltzed through immigration and customs only to find no one waiting for me.
Well, I figured, maybe they didn’t know when the flight was going to arrive, since it was late. No problem, I will find them. The only address I had was “Mission Compound, Uluberia, West Bengal”. No problem, I just walked up to a taxi and asked, “Can you get me to Uluberia?” He looked at me questioningly, and I repeated “Uluberia” about twenty more times and then he understood. “OK. Yes. OK.” He directed me to put my luggage into the taxi then turned around to confer with the other taxi drivers for about fifteen minutes. After some hand waving and writing of notes, I realized that my chosen taxi driver had no idea where Uluberia was. But it looked like he was getting directions. And sure enough, after about two and a half hours, ten close calls with buses coming from the opposite direction, driving into a dark, mostly deserted town, asking for directions, we arrived.
The mission compound was closed. The tall metal gate was locked and the taxi driver pounded on it. The night guard told us the compound was closed. I said they were expecting me (I hoped) and the guard went in to check. About ten minutes later, I hear a male voice call out in American English, “Are you Steve Kimes?” After spending the minutes trying to discern how I and my luggage were going to spend the night leaning on the gate, I said in relief that I was. “We were just praying for you. We just received your telegram tonight. We thought you were lost in Calcutta.” I said “No problem. I took a taxi.” “A taxi!” he exclaimed. “No one’s taken a taxi from Calcutta to Uluberia before!” I always seem to be first to do things.
After spending a while in Uluberia and Calcutta, I realized that I had not arrived in another country, but another planet. Moments after my arrival at the compound and I mentioned my need to go to the bathroom, I was motioned to a small room with a hole in the floor. I wasn’t sure what to do with that hole, and the bricks on either side didn’t seem to help in sitting on it. Most people there spoke some version of English, except for my roommate who only spoke Napali (being from Napal, I guess that would make sense). Everyone there ate enormous helpings of rice with some amounts of either dal or curry, neither of which I found palatable—okay, it was just about impossible for me to eat, but I learned because I soon found that otherwise my diet would consist exclusively of rice of a quantity that were it water I would have drowned. Desperate for Western food, I scourged Calcutta for months, eating spaghetti that tasted like Chinese food and a “cheeseburger” that consisted of a half-inch slab of strange-tasting cheese between two slices of bread.
Part of my learning process was having my passport and traveler’s cheques stolen. To replace these, I spent more time in Calcutta, dealing with the various bureaucratic institutions of India, from police stations to banks to embassies.
But a huge part of my experience was dealing with the beggars and poor of Calcutta. After spending a bit of time there (outside the airport), it is impossible not to notice the poor. For one thing, if you go there as a Westerner, you can almost see the dollar signs roll up in their eyes like in a cartoon. Once they see you, they won’t let you go. I had one woman follow me for a half mile, yelling something incoherent (to me), then stand outside the place I was eating for a half hour, only to yell at me again when I stepped outside. (Although this was my experience in 1985, my more recent visit to Calcutta was nothing like this). As a beggar, she was “making her own luck” I suppose. And, as an unjust judge of old, I finally gave her something just to get some peace. Don’t be fooled, blackmail works.
But the beggars weren’t the only sign of poverty. Millions of people daily washed themselves and their clothes in public at the water pumps. Of the twelve million people in the city at the time, a million of them lived on the street. Thousands would scour the already picked through piles of garbage on the street. Poverty and homelessness wasn’t just “an issue” in Calcutta, but it was a slap in the face insisting upon attention from every person who lived and visited the city.
For me, though, while I was there, the poverty didn’t stir up wells of compassion that were full to the brim. Poverty was just a problem that I had to deal with quickly, and ignore just as quickly so I could get on with my business, whatever that business happened to be. Dealing with poverty wasn’t a religious deed or dealing with my pangs of guilt—it was a matter of getting it out of my face so I could deal with my real life. Every time I entered Howrah Station (the main train station of Calcutta) I was constantly tempted to take a handful of almost worthless coins and pitch them behind me so that the group of child beggars would just get out of my way and stop touching me, stop staring at me with puppy-dog eyes that quickly turn to knowing glances after money was given.
This isn’t to say I didn’t feel pity at all. That emotion, though rarely experienced, did creep up on me as I heard the Dickensian plight of many of these child beggars: These children were often kidnapped from other cities in India from their parents, to other towns, and young enough that they could not find their way home on their own. They were forced by their captors to beg on the streets, for the cute and pitiable make much money. Should they not bring in enough money that day, they are beaten and not given food. If the children are not wise enough to run away on their own, and their captors realize that they aren’t making as much money as they “should”, then an arm or a leg would be hacked off, in the hopes to make them more “pitiable”. After they are old and ugly enough to not even make enough for themselves to live on, then they are thrown out of their captor’s house, and they beg on their own—too crippled to work, too ignorant to do anything else but beg.
This was told to me to let me know that I shouldn’t give to the child beggars, because the money just goes to these super villain captors. But does this mean I shouldn’t give to the children? Does this mean they should be beaten each night and starved? I said that I just give them money to get them out of my way. My tutor explained the situation to me again, as if I didn’t understand what the money was going to. No, I understood. What he didn’t understand is the difference between us: he was Indian, and not especially wealthy. He was ignorable. I, however, with my white-white hands and blonde hair and blue jeans and French hat—I was the epitome of wealth. These beggars would rarely see such an ideal stereotype of Western wealth. There I was, the god of Rich Boys, incarnated and walking among them and they were damned if I and the salvation I represented just walked by them and ignored their plight.
By the end of the first three months there, my wealth was drained—I had nothing left. Not giving to beggars, mostly, but giving gifts to those of moderate wealth who were my friends at the compound. Giving myself restaurant food, when cheaper food was available. Attempting to gain the passport and money I had lost.
Eventually I traveled to Bangladesh—East Bengal—and learned of their poverty, although I saw little of it. The poverty there wasn’t urban as much as rural, and I stayed mostly in the cities, praying, evangelizing, learning about Islam. We returned to Calcutta and I assisted in an evangelistic campaign. But I mostly had time to think. I thought of much, of the spiritual need of those around me. But I also couldn’t forget the beggars. For some reason, they stuck in my head. They still stick in my head, today.
At the time, as part of my young aspirations, I fancied myself a poet/songwriter. They stunk, of course, and I think I suspected this, for I almost never showed them to anyone. I had done enough reading of Emily Dickenson and T.S. Eliot to know what real poetry sounded like, and I didn’t have the muse’s gift. But just before I left Calcutta, I wrote a song trying to voice what that beggar woman yelling at me was saying:
Don’t turn your eyes from me, don’t turn away
I see the wealth you hide within, share it I pray.
You don’t have to squeeze my hand—you know I am poor.
I only want a little, I don’t ask you for more.
My clothes tattered, my flesh torn, flies fill my face.
You reason I’m unworthy of you—but I need your grace.
Your wealth abounds and begs release, please heal my sore
Your pockets full, yet sown with greed—do you need it more?
Don’t give me pictures from your cameras, movies nor magazines.
You have the life that I need to live. Give me bread, don’t give me jeans.
You turn away from my sadness, but what would Jesus do?
Would he give me dust and say “go away”, or heal me and say “be true”?
Through a customs error (on my part) I ended up spending a week in Delhi that I did not expect. This allowed me with ample time to meditate on my experiences as a young man in India. I thought about wanting to go home, about the differences between home and India, about the warmth and friendship I had experienced. And I thought about the beggars and garbage-pickers in Calcutta. In the Delhi airport, I met a man with a slight Southern accent and a large ten-gallon hat, who felt that it was his right to inform me of how idiotic he felt India was, from how they went to the bathroom, to how the people smelled. I was disgusted and found another seat.
I arrived back home the day after Christmas, after spending my Christmas on three planes. I was glad to come back the day after “present-day” for I don’t think I could have faced the orgy of wrapping paper and greed. I received some few presents—clothes, and some cash. But I realized I wouldn’t receive much, for my gift was going to India. But I don’t think my parents realized what such a gift would mean. It wasn’t just a toy that one plays with a couple days and then casts away. Rather, my experience in India was a jewel covered in rock and mud that required much polishing and scraping to discover the wealth that was truly underneath it.
Being Christmas, the tree was up and trimmed beautifully and huge plates of leftover food was available, as well as candy dished filled with peanut M&Ms (as a treat I would occasionally purchase myself a bar of Cadbury chocolate in Howrah Station). I remembered the years of Christmas’ I had received enormous amounts of gifts, and most of these gifts had been trashed or wasted or ignored. I remembered my extended family and their gorging of food and the fact that the majority of excess weight gained was due just to overeating. That night, as laid on my bed three feet off of the ground, with a padded comforter over me, I turned my well trained righteous prig eye on myself. Remembering the beggars and the garbage-pickers. And I wept.
Yep, see, I’m a Charismaniac too. This doesn’t mean that I yell and scream in services ( I don’t), nor that I’m a “dancer before the Lord” (I’m not) nor that I announce in public “thus saith the Lord” (well, I do this very rarely, but don’t hold it against me, please). The difference between Charismatics and non-Chrarismatics is that the non-Chrarismatic is content with the Bible and their worship services and their ethical standard. The Charismatic is not. The Charismatic wants to see God at work through miracles, power and direct speech. This doesn’t mean that the Charismatic neglects the Bible or ethics—not at all! But they want understanding and life and love directly from God’s power, experienced in their lives.
Now, back to our story. For as long as I have been a Christian, I have believed that God could speak to those who believed in Jesus. Why not? He spoke to the people in the Bible, when He wanted to, so why not now? So I just expected that God would speak to me. Perhaps that was arrogance on my part, assuming that God would WANT to speak to me, but, hey, I was a teenager. Yes, God made the world, but it revolves around ME. Anyway, I knew that if I asked God something, he would answer. So I knew that I was going to participate in missions—cross-cultural ministry in a country not my own. So I contacted a youth missions group called YWAM (the organization my friend and I wanted to join when we were sixteen) and said, “Where are you located?” They sent me a list of all of their bases, all over the world.
So I looked them over and told God—“God, I’m going to one of these places. I’ve chosen either Cyprus, India or Hong Kong. Which one of these do you want me to go to?” I’m sure that God remembered that I was only nineteen and so he didn’t project me into space in millions of unconnected particles. God, quite politely, (probably sniggering behind his omnipotent hand) answered, “India.” So it was decided, I thought. I’m going to India.
Of course, I had no money to do this or any experience of travelling solo outside of Southern California, but my ignorant arrogance knew no bounds. (I haven’t really changed much in this regard, although I consider myself to be less ignorant) I sent an application to Madras, India, and they wrote me back to send it to Calcutta, for they weren’t accepting foreigners. So I sent it to Calcutta so that I might be accepted to their six month discipleship school beginning in July. Meanwhile, I got a passport and asked for funds. Between my church and my father—who, amazingly, and perhaps naively, offered to pay for my airfare to Calcutta—my expenses were taken care of.
I was fully confident that I would be accepted by the school. As July loomed closer, however, my brick wall of assurance began to crack. By the end of June, the holes were big enough to drive a herd of elephants through it. By July 1, the first day of the school in India, I had almost put it out of my mind. Of course, that was the day my letter of acceptance arrived.
I spent about a half hour pacing, attempting to make a decision—I was actually rebuilding my wall of confidence, bricks, mortar and all. By the next day, my mother in tears, I was on a flight to San Francisco to obtain an Indian visa at the Embassy there (they told me it would take a week, but I sat in their office for a full working day and they gave me the visa just to get rid of me), and in less than five days after the letter arrived, I sat in Bangkok, Thailand. The telegram I had sent the folks in Calcutta said that I would arrive on Saturday. But the Calcutta airport was flooded, so I stayed overnight in a plush hotel (airline’s expense!) and slept away my jet lag. The next day I arrived in Dum Dum Airport (yes, that’s really the name of the airport in Calcutta—and they didn’t have a single lollipop!) and waltzed through immigration and customs only to find no one waiting for me.
Well, I figured, maybe they didn’t know when the flight was going to arrive, since it was late. No problem, I will find them. The only address I had was “Mission Compound, Uluberia, West Bengal”. No problem, I just walked up to a taxi and asked, “Can you get me to Uluberia?” He looked at me questioningly, and I repeated “Uluberia” about twenty more times and then he understood. “OK. Yes. OK.” He directed me to put my luggage into the taxi then turned around to confer with the other taxi drivers for about fifteen minutes. After some hand waving and writing of notes, I realized that my chosen taxi driver had no idea where Uluberia was. But it looked like he was getting directions. And sure enough, after about two and a half hours, ten close calls with buses coming from the opposite direction, driving into a dark, mostly deserted town, asking for directions, we arrived.
The mission compound was closed. The tall metal gate was locked and the taxi driver pounded on it. The night guard told us the compound was closed. I said they were expecting me (I hoped) and the guard went in to check. About ten minutes later, I hear a male voice call out in American English, “Are you Steve Kimes?” After spending the minutes trying to discern how I and my luggage were going to spend the night leaning on the gate, I said in relief that I was. “We were just praying for you. We just received your telegram tonight. We thought you were lost in Calcutta.” I said “No problem. I took a taxi.” “A taxi!” he exclaimed. “No one’s taken a taxi from Calcutta to Uluberia before!” I always seem to be first to do things.
After spending a while in Uluberia and Calcutta, I realized that I had not arrived in another country, but another planet. Moments after my arrival at the compound and I mentioned my need to go to the bathroom, I was motioned to a small room with a hole in the floor. I wasn’t sure what to do with that hole, and the bricks on either side didn’t seem to help in sitting on it. Most people there spoke some version of English, except for my roommate who only spoke Napali (being from Napal, I guess that would make sense). Everyone there ate enormous helpings of rice with some amounts of either dal or curry, neither of which I found palatable—okay, it was just about impossible for me to eat, but I learned because I soon found that otherwise my diet would consist exclusively of rice of a quantity that were it water I would have drowned. Desperate for Western food, I scourged Calcutta for months, eating spaghetti that tasted like Chinese food and a “cheeseburger” that consisted of a half-inch slab of strange-tasting cheese between two slices of bread.
Part of my learning process was having my passport and traveler’s cheques stolen. To replace these, I spent more time in Calcutta, dealing with the various bureaucratic institutions of India, from police stations to banks to embassies.
But a huge part of my experience was dealing with the beggars and poor of Calcutta. After spending a bit of time there (outside the airport), it is impossible not to notice the poor. For one thing, if you go there as a Westerner, you can almost see the dollar signs roll up in their eyes like in a cartoon. Once they see you, they won’t let you go. I had one woman follow me for a half mile, yelling something incoherent (to me), then stand outside the place I was eating for a half hour, only to yell at me again when I stepped outside. (Although this was my experience in 1985, my more recent visit to Calcutta was nothing like this). As a beggar, she was “making her own luck” I suppose. And, as an unjust judge of old, I finally gave her something just to get some peace. Don’t be fooled, blackmail works.
But the beggars weren’t the only sign of poverty. Millions of people daily washed themselves and their clothes in public at the water pumps. Of the twelve million people in the city at the time, a million of them lived on the street. Thousands would scour the already picked through piles of garbage on the street. Poverty and homelessness wasn’t just “an issue” in Calcutta, but it was a slap in the face insisting upon attention from every person who lived and visited the city.
For me, though, while I was there, the poverty didn’t stir up wells of compassion that were full to the brim. Poverty was just a problem that I had to deal with quickly, and ignore just as quickly so I could get on with my business, whatever that business happened to be. Dealing with poverty wasn’t a religious deed or dealing with my pangs of guilt—it was a matter of getting it out of my face so I could deal with my real life. Every time I entered Howrah Station (the main train station of Calcutta) I was constantly tempted to take a handful of almost worthless coins and pitch them behind me so that the group of child beggars would just get out of my way and stop touching me, stop staring at me with puppy-dog eyes that quickly turn to knowing glances after money was given.
This isn’t to say I didn’t feel pity at all. That emotion, though rarely experienced, did creep up on me as I heard the Dickensian plight of many of these child beggars: These children were often kidnapped from other cities in India from their parents, to other towns, and young enough that they could not find their way home on their own. They were forced by their captors to beg on the streets, for the cute and pitiable make much money. Should they not bring in enough money that day, they are beaten and not given food. If the children are not wise enough to run away on their own, and their captors realize that they aren’t making as much money as they “should”, then an arm or a leg would be hacked off, in the hopes to make them more “pitiable”. After they are old and ugly enough to not even make enough for themselves to live on, then they are thrown out of their captor’s house, and they beg on their own—too crippled to work, too ignorant to do anything else but beg.
This was told to me to let me know that I shouldn’t give to the child beggars, because the money just goes to these super villain captors. But does this mean I shouldn’t give to the children? Does this mean they should be beaten each night and starved? I said that I just give them money to get them out of my way. My tutor explained the situation to me again, as if I didn’t understand what the money was going to. No, I understood. What he didn’t understand is the difference between us: he was Indian, and not especially wealthy. He was ignorable. I, however, with my white-white hands and blonde hair and blue jeans and French hat—I was the epitome of wealth. These beggars would rarely see such an ideal stereotype of Western wealth. There I was, the god of Rich Boys, incarnated and walking among them and they were damned if I and the salvation I represented just walked by them and ignored their plight.
By the end of the first three months there, my wealth was drained—I had nothing left. Not giving to beggars, mostly, but giving gifts to those of moderate wealth who were my friends at the compound. Giving myself restaurant food, when cheaper food was available. Attempting to gain the passport and money I had lost.
Eventually I traveled to Bangladesh—East Bengal—and learned of their poverty, although I saw little of it. The poverty there wasn’t urban as much as rural, and I stayed mostly in the cities, praying, evangelizing, learning about Islam. We returned to Calcutta and I assisted in an evangelistic campaign. But I mostly had time to think. I thought of much, of the spiritual need of those around me. But I also couldn’t forget the beggars. For some reason, they stuck in my head. They still stick in my head, today.
At the time, as part of my young aspirations, I fancied myself a poet/songwriter. They stunk, of course, and I think I suspected this, for I almost never showed them to anyone. I had done enough reading of Emily Dickenson and T.S. Eliot to know what real poetry sounded like, and I didn’t have the muse’s gift. But just before I left Calcutta, I wrote a song trying to voice what that beggar woman yelling at me was saying:
Don’t turn your eyes from me, don’t turn away
I see the wealth you hide within, share it I pray.
You don’t have to squeeze my hand—you know I am poor.
I only want a little, I don’t ask you for more.
My clothes tattered, my flesh torn, flies fill my face.
You reason I’m unworthy of you—but I need your grace.
Your wealth abounds and begs release, please heal my sore
Your pockets full, yet sown with greed—do you need it more?
Don’t give me pictures from your cameras, movies nor magazines.
You have the life that I need to live. Give me bread, don’t give me jeans.
You turn away from my sadness, but what would Jesus do?
Would he give me dust and say “go away”, or heal me and say “be true”?
Through a customs error (on my part) I ended up spending a week in Delhi that I did not expect. This allowed me with ample time to meditate on my experiences as a young man in India. I thought about wanting to go home, about the differences between home and India, about the warmth and friendship I had experienced. And I thought about the beggars and garbage-pickers in Calcutta. In the Delhi airport, I met a man with a slight Southern accent and a large ten-gallon hat, who felt that it was his right to inform me of how idiotic he felt India was, from how they went to the bathroom, to how the people smelled. I was disgusted and found another seat.
I arrived back home the day after Christmas, after spending my Christmas on three planes. I was glad to come back the day after “present-day” for I don’t think I could have faced the orgy of wrapping paper and greed. I received some few presents—clothes, and some cash. But I realized I wouldn’t receive much, for my gift was going to India. But I don’t think my parents realized what such a gift would mean. It wasn’t just a toy that one plays with a couple days and then casts away. Rather, my experience in India was a jewel covered in rock and mud that required much polishing and scraping to discover the wealth that was truly underneath it.
Being Christmas, the tree was up and trimmed beautifully and huge plates of leftover food was available, as well as candy dished filled with peanut M&Ms (as a treat I would occasionally purchase myself a bar of Cadbury chocolate in Howrah Station). I remembered the years of Christmas’ I had received enormous amounts of gifts, and most of these gifts had been trashed or wasted or ignored. I remembered my extended family and their gorging of food and the fact that the majority of excess weight gained was due just to overeating. That night, as laid on my bed three feet off of the ground, with a padded comforter over me, I turned my well trained righteous prig eye on myself. Remembering the beggars and the garbage-pickers. And I wept.
A Stranglely Familiar Parable
Once there was a good Christian man who was wealthy. He would read his Bible daily, praise God every Sunday and he treated his family well. Every day he would walk to his office from his house. One day, as he was walking to his office, he saw a man in disheveled, dirty clothes, holding a sign which said, “Homeless—anything will help.” The disheveled man looked, pleading with the Christian with his eyes. The Christian turned his head, saying to himself, “He needs to get a job instead of bothering good people on the street.” The next day the Christian saw a filthy woman holding a sign which said, “Pregnant and homeless, please help.” She asked him, “Could you spare a few dollars so I could get a motel room,” he replied, “Isn’t there a shelter you could go to?” And he passed her by. The next day the Christian saw a man with brown skin and unkempt hair sitting on the sidewalk with one leg missing. The man asked with a deep accent, “Could you please assist me in any way?” The Christian became upset with all of these interruptions of his pleasant morning meditation, and he yelled, “Can’t you people just leave me alone? Why don’t you just go back where you came from?”
As he walked into his office on that third day, the Christian had a heart attack and died. The angels picked him up and delivered him immediately (or so it seemed to him) to the Father for judgment. The Father looked down at him and said, “I sent you three of my angels, to see how you would respond to them. I have brought them here to witness to your action.” The first angel, no longer disheveled, but wearing white robes said, “This Christian refused to help me.” The second angel, no longer dirty, said, “He told me to find a shelter, but offered no help.” The third angel, with his leg fully intact, said, “This Christian told me to go back where I came from. So I am here. He refused to help me.” The Father looked at the man and judged: “You have done evil to your brothers and sisters. I gave you many blessings, and you refused to help those in need. You will be punished eternally.”
As the enforcement officers came to take the Christian away, he called to the Father, “But Lord, Lord—what about my family? Shouldn’t they be given a chance? Please send one of these angels to them to explain to them their sin so they can repent.” The Father replied, “Do they not read my Word daily? If they ignore the one who has been risen from the dead, they will not listen to an angel.”
As he walked into his office on that third day, the Christian had a heart attack and died. The angels picked him up and delivered him immediately (or so it seemed to him) to the Father for judgment. The Father looked down at him and said, “I sent you three of my angels, to see how you would respond to them. I have brought them here to witness to your action.” The first angel, no longer disheveled, but wearing white robes said, “This Christian refused to help me.” The second angel, no longer dirty, said, “He told me to find a shelter, but offered no help.” The third angel, with his leg fully intact, said, “This Christian told me to go back where I came from. So I am here. He refused to help me.” The Father looked at the man and judged: “You have done evil to your brothers and sisters. I gave you many blessings, and you refused to help those in need. You will be punished eternally.”
As the enforcement officers came to take the Christian away, he called to the Father, “But Lord, Lord—what about my family? Shouldn’t they be given a chance? Please send one of these angels to them to explain to them their sin so they can repent.” The Father replied, “Do they not read my Word daily? If they ignore the one who has been risen from the dead, they will not listen to an angel.”
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