Christ in the Chris, the homeless man

July 6, 2015
Rosa Parks Circle, Grand Rapids, Michigan
38^th Convention of the National Association of Pastoral Musicians
Public Concert with the Cortez family 

While sitting in Rosa Parks Circle, in Grand Rapids, MI, attending an outdoor concert by Jaime Cortez and family, I watched a homeless man take his place at my side with a tin container of spaghetti and another container of some other food.  Clearly, one or two of the hundreds of people in attendance at the outdoor event had given this man food to eat.  As he sat there eating the spaghetti with his hands, he seemed to be content.  He was clearly tapping his foot to the beautiful Catholic songs of the Cortez family, their Spanish rhythms and percussive beats evoking joy. Every once in a while, he’d break out into a little seated dance.  He seemed to be enjoying the spaghetti, as he pulled each handful to his mouth to eat.  I have to admit, shamefully, that I was a little grossed out watching this man eat with his hands in this way.  Yet, at the same time, I was filled with compassion as I realized that this was probably a feast to this man. 

He was wearing a bright fluorescent green tee shirt that was worn inside out, and was very soiled with dirt and other stains.  His skin was burnt bronze by the sun, and aged beyond his years.  I’m not sure how we made eye contact with each other.  But somehow, I believe it was destined to be.  One thing jumped out at me about this man in particular.  He had the most beautiful bright blue eyes that I may have ever seen before.  His eyes were in direct contrast with his dark skin and messy hair.  His eyes were bright and appeared joyful, in spite of his outwardly messy and somewhat sad appearance. 

When I looked into this man’s eyes, I no longer saw the homeless man, eating with his hands, but another man.  That’s it.  Another man.  I asked him how he was doing, and a great conversation followed.  He told me that he was doing well today.  He told me that it was a good night for an outdoor concert.  He told me that he was happy to have been given spaghetti AND tacos.  He was happy that someone noticed him, and that they treated him with respect.  He told me that it’s embarrassing to be homeless.  He told me that he is embarrassed by the way that he looks, and the way that he smells, the way his teeth have rotted out, and the way that others see him. He went on to tell me that he lives under one of the many bridges in Grand Rapids, and pointed in the direction of my hotel. I tried to assure him that he looked fine.  He knew better.  He again told me how embarrassed he is to be homeless and to have to ask others for money and daily provisions.  I mentioned to him that while that is the way he feels, it could happen to anyone.  “Who knows?” I said to him.  “Perhaps one day, you’ll be in a position to be giving to someone else. Isn’t that what life is all about?” I asked.  “Aren’t we all put in this world to help each other out and support one another along our journeys?” 

That question, “Aren’t we all put in this world to help each other out and support one another along our journeys?” opened up the floodgates of conversation.  This man spoke of how he used to be in a position to help others.  He told me that he served in the US Marine Corp and had four tours of duty. It was July 6^th when I met this man.  He told me that this year was the first year that he could watch fireworks without the sounds of the booms and bangs sending him into a PTSD induced fit of rage.  He told me that loud noises, and gunshot like sounds, usually make him aggressive.  He didn’t understand it. He couldn’t understand it.  It just made him crazy. He told me that he drinks to calm his spirit.  Unfortunately, there is so much inner turmoil in his life, that when he drinks, he cannot stop.  He told me that he is an alcoholic, and a pretty serious one. 

He spoke of a time when he founded sober houses to help the returning veterans.  He spoke of fathering many different children, and having children all over the country and even in Toronto.  I asked him about his children, and whether he still gets to see his family.  He was so proud to share their stories.  He told me about one of his daughters, and how happy he is when he gets to see her.  He told me that she can sometimes be embarrassed of the way that he looks and how before they go out anywhere, she gets him all cleaned up and shaven.  His grey beard, he told me, is not a good thing for a person who lives on the street.  He says that when younger gang members and other homeless see an older person, that person becomes more vulnerable.  That grey in the beard becomes a source of weakness and/or of submission.  He told me that when his beard gets too grey, it’s time to clean up…but even that poses another problem.  If he is too clean, people don’t want to give to him.  He told me that being dirty and unshaven helps him to make more money.  People don’t want to give to a cleaned up person.  Imagine that?  

My curiosity was getting the best of me, and I wanted, no; I needed to make sense of this all.  I asked him why he was homeless.  Why can’t you get off of the street?  He replied that it wasn’t as easy as that. His alcoholism is the source of many of his issues. I then asked, “So, why can’t you go into a program for the alcoholism?” He told me that in order to get the help that he needed, he would have to leave the state of Michigan.  He had been kicked out of several programs for non-compliance, and the last shelter that he lived in, he broke the rules badly.  He had bought a “fifth” of booze, and another resident tried to steal it from him.  He told me that he had a fight with the other resident, and ended up being arrested and put in jail for it.  In addition to the punishment from the law enforcement, he was kicked out of the last shelter that could have helped him.  He has to wait a certain time before he is eligible to participate in another program.  Again, he apologetically offered me an explanation, as if I was his conscience.  He told me, “I guess I should have just let him have my fifth, but sometimes I can’t control my anger.”  He went on to speak about his father, and how his father was an angry man.  He told me that his Irish father couldn’t love people who were different from him.  He told me that when he was released from prison, he had nowhere to go and went to work in one of the many fruit fields in Michigan.  There, he met a migrant worker, a black woman, who would become the mother of one of his children.  His daughter too is black.  He told me that up until recent years, his father wanted nothing to do with his grandchild, because of the color of her skin.  He then looked at me and asked, “Aren’t we all His children, no matter what the color of our skin?”  He mentioned that his father had recently passed away, and that he had an inheritance of about $375,000 waiting for him at home.  I was so excited for this stranger that I had met and encouraged him to go home and receive his inheritance.  He quickly reminded me that he cannot go home until he is clean and sober.  “You see” he said, “that kind of money in the hands of an alcoholic is the same as a death sentence.  I’d drink it all away and that kind of alcohol would kill me.” 

I couldn’t seem to find the words…so I just listened.  I believe that my presence became the right words to speak.  This man kept apologizing to me, saying “I’m sorry I’m talking your ear off.”  I assured him that it was a blessing for me to be with him, and that I was enjoying getting to know my new friend a little better.  Sometimes, just being there for someone, and genuinely taking interest in that person can be the right thing to do.  It may help the other person to be heard, and it is a way for us to learn more about the joys and pains of another human being.  It is a reminder that every person has a story and it was a chance for me to hear just how smart this person who many turn their noses down from really is. 

As we continued to listen to the Cortez family perform, he asked me about the convention.  I told him that we were a group of Pastoral Musicians, and that we were here for our annual convention.  He asked me what denomination I am.  I told him that I am Catholic. Again, somewhat apologetically he said, ”I’m sorry.  I used to be Catholic.  I was born Catholic and stuff.  But now I’m Baptist.”  He continued to tell me that he had nothing against Catholics but he couldn’t “wrap his head” around some of the church teachings.  He was particularly confused about praying to saints.  I told him that I understood his confusion.  It wasn’t the first time that I’ve heard that concern.  I asked him if he has ever asked anyone here on earth to pray for him.  He had.  I told him that praying to the Saints was just like that.  We aren’t praying to the Saints as gods, rather, we pray to them as members of the community of believers….only they are in the communion of Saints in heaven, not on earth.  We pray to them for their intercession, much in the same way that we ask other humans to pray for us.  Just as our friends and family make up the body of Christ here on earth, the saints make up the body of Christ in heaven.  Then great grace  happened.  This man and I transcended from strangers with no names to brothers in the body of Christ.  He told me, “I get it.  Hey, I was named for a Saint in the Catholic Church.  My name is Christopher.”  I told Christopher that I too was named for a Saint, the Virgin Mary.  I told him my name in Portuguese means “belonging to Mary,” Mariano.  In that moment, we went past a homeless man and a convention attendee.  We became two brothers with names.  My name is Christopher.  My name is Mariano. 

Christopher went on to tell me that people call him Chris.  He told me that he had been to many different churches in his time on the streets.  He now identifies with the Baptist Church.  I teased him a little bit.  I asked him, “What kind of Baptist are you, if you are spending your days ‘in the bottle’?” We shared a laugh together, and he told me that he must be a bad Baptist.  I quickly responded that it wasn’t true.  He was a good Christian with a bad disease. He spoke about how his faith got him through the winter. He seemed surprised when he told me that in spite of the cold, he never froze to death.  Chris has an honesty about him that I could only wish to have.  He shared with me so many intimate details about his life, which I’m not sure I would feel so free to share with others.  He told me about drug use, being arrested for selling drugs, fathering many children with many different women, being kicked out of sober houses, learning to live on the streets, and finally about others who live under the bridges with him.  They were part of a community.

Chris told me that he was afraid at times, and that he sleeps with a bar in one hand and a gun close by.  Chris said that there had recently been a lot of attacks on the homeless by local gangs of youth.  He told me that the city had recently found a body in the Grand River of a homeless person whose neck had been slit.  He stated that the City didn’t publicize it, because it would negatively impact tourism.  He stated that quite a few homeless people had recently been killed.  I honestly didn’t know whether to believe what he was saying.  But I had no reason to doubt what he was sharing with me either.  I had already witnessed the way some people had treated them, dismissing their humanity…trying to ignore their presence.  I had witnessed some of my own friends from NPM turning a blind eye, or blaming the homeless.  When I gave a dollar or two, I was told by friends, “well, you’ve just enabled another drunk.” 

I’m always faced with a struggle when I give money to the homeless.  But, judging what they will do with my money isn’t what I’m supposed to do.  I’m supposed to love without condition.  I’m offering a gift to another brother or sister.  They can choose to use it however they see fit to use the gift.  It’s no longer mine, but theirs.  I give with the hopes that they will use it for good.  With each gift comes a larger gift that is even more valuable…the gift of prayer.  When I give, I try to look at the person’s face and to place them on my heart.  Most of the time, I pray a short mental prayer at the time of the gift.  Many times, I remember them later on in the night when offering thanks to God, and thinking about times when I have experienced His presence in the day.  Using the formula of Ignatius’ Daily Examen, one examines things they have to be thankful for, things to be sorrowful for, moments when others have been Christ’s presence to them, and moments when one might have been Christ’s presence to others.  This interaction with Chris enabled me to see each of these moments in a real way.  I believe that my time with Chris, was time with Christ.

Then came the moment I was hoping wouldn’t happen.  Chris turned to me and said, “Hey Mariano, I’m embarrassed to even ask you this, and I promise I won’t use it for booze, but would you have some spare change so that I can buy a pop?” I reached into my wallet, and gave him a five dollar bill.  I said to him, “Chris, you use it as you see fit, and say a prayer for me.” His beautiful, bright blue eyes seemed to light up.  He said to me with wonder in his expression, “I get to hear this great music. Someone gave me spaghetti.  Someone gave me tacos, and now I got five dollars!  I don’t deserve this.”  I said to him, “no you don’t.  You deserve so much more.”

Chris and I kept speaking about many different topics. He told me that Grand Rapids was a great place to live, because there were often free concerts in the park.  I asked him what his favorite kind of music was.  He likes rock and jazz.  I told him that my first love was the saxophone, and that I played all through high school.  We share some moments talking about different music, as the Latin rhythms changed to rock music, performed by the Cortez children.  “You know,” he said, “this is the kind of music that deserves to have people dancing to it.”  He then went on to say something that for me was profound.  He said, “Look at all these people. They are listening to great music, you know, the kind of music that makes you want to get up and dance, and they are all just sitting there. I know that I’ve already had a fifth today, but I’m the only one that’s dancing, me and my buddy over there (as he pointed at another man across the park, who was out of his seat and dancing).  The only ones dancing to this music are me and my buddy over there.  He’s Mexican.  He lives under the bridge with me. A lot of people are listening to the music.  We are feeling it.”

Chris and his friend dancing to the live music. 

How’s that for a reality check?  Hundreds of pastoral musicians were there, but the only two people who were “feeling” it and letting their bodies respond to the music with dance, were Chris and his friend.  I guess that when you have found yourself with little, you no longer care what others might think if you let your body dance when music moves you.   Isn’t that strange?  The very thing that gathered us together in Grand Rapids was a love of music, and a love of God.  Music is our common heartbeat.  Music is the source for us of great joy.  Music is part of our very being.  There we were, enjoying a concert in the park, sometimes singing, sometimes shouting a refrain, sometimes singing some doo-wops, but never becoming one with the music in the way that Chris and his friend did. 

Chris taught me so much in the time we were together.  Before long, he wanted to go and dance.  And dance he did.  Before he took his leave, he thanked me for the time I had spent with him on that day and for the conversation that we had.  He apologized yet again for “talking my ear off.” I said, “Chris, please don’t apologize.  I’ve enjoyed getting to know you.  I will not soon forget you.” I reached out my hand and he placed his dirty, spaghetti covered, rough skinned, and gritty hand in my hand.  And I shook the hand of Christ.  “Thank you, Chris.  Thank you for talking with me.  Be well, my friend.”  And away he went to dance in front of the stage for the rest of the night. 

I really had to stop and think about my meeting with Chris on that day.  My hand too now felt dirty.  My hand felt gritty.  I have to admit, shamefully, that as a self-proclaimed germophobe, I could not wait to wash my hands.  It was only when I got home and was telling this story to my aunt that I was reminded by her of Pope Francis’ exhortation to our priests…to bring the healing power of God’s grace to everyone in need, to stay close to the marginalized and to be “shepherds living with the smell of the sheep.”  In that moment, Chris was Christ to me, and perhaps I was a bit of Christ to him.  And like one who strives, but often fails, to be a good shepherd, I smelled like the sheep.  My pastoral musician friends who were with me in the park, teased me for the rest of the week.  They would look to each other and ask, “do I smell spaghetti?” In hindsight, what a moment of great grace.  What a blessing it was for me to have spoken with “that homeless man,” turned “man,” turned brother in Christ.  In those moments were many lessons for me that I hope never to forget. 

My hotel room had the most beautiful view overlooking the Grand River.  From my hotel room, I could see the Grand Rapids Museum of History, the Gerald Ford Presidential Museum, the Grand Valley State University, and several bridges….including the bridge that Chris pointed to.  Every night before going to bed, I’d marvel at the beautiful view.  Every night and every morning, the first thing on my mind was to thank God for His many blessings to me.  Immediately after thanking God, I’d look out the window, and immediately look at the bridges.  Here I was in this fancy hotel room with all of the luxuries and comforts of air-conditioning, shower AND hot tub, HD television, a refrigerator filled with snacks and drinks, lotions and soaps, room service, and many other excesses, while many men, women, and children, were living under the shadow of the hotel, under the bridges and in the museum park.

Looking at the bridges awakened in my heart the need for mercy.  Mercy for myself.  A prayer for the grace to try to make a difference in my life and the lives of those I come in contact with.  Mercy for the times that I have not responded with love and charity to the needs of another.  Mercy for all who turn a blind eye on the needs of others.  Mercy for the men and women who have found themselves without a roof over their heads, or food in their bellies, or a dime in their pocket. 

Every day for the rest of the week, I’d look at those bridges and offer a prayer of thanks to God.  “Thank you for putting Chris in my life, and Chris on my heart.”  I’d pray for God to watch over him, and to give him the grace to be able to get the help that he needs.  I prayed for those who live with Chris in this beautiful city under these bridges.  I prayed for those who have harmed the homeless.  I prayed that God will give them a sense of love and peace so that they will learn to love and help the homeless, rather than to try to hurt the homeless. 

By the end of the week, something big happened.  I had the realization that we are like those bridges.  When we really love another, we can sometimes bridge the gap of loneliness.  We can sometimes offer a safe resting place for those with no place to rest.  We can offer an ear to those who have no one to listen to them.  We can connect the marginalized with the rest of society…we can connect them with another heart to love, another heart to share their joys and pains, another heart to just be with.  We can become a bridge between a world so cruel and filled with hopelessness, to the love of God, filled with joy, and with hope. 

I continue to pray for Chris.  He has clearly touched my heart.  At the same time, I pray for myself.  Lord, give me a heart to love everyone that I come in contact with as you love them.  Help me not to be focused on what I want, but on the needs of others.  Guide me in my work that I may be a bridge between this world and your kingdom.  Give me the grace to truly feel the gift of music with my heart, and to live that song of praise for others through my presence.   Help me to lose my selfishness and greed, and replace it with generosity of spirit.  Bless all of those for whom your stars and heavens are their roof at night.  Give them their daily bread.  Help them to see your love in your creation.  Amen.