January 17, 2010

• Lessons on Being Poor

  
  (This is me on pilgrimage! See that farm in the distance? That is the home of Mystery Girl… I was just about to try and finish that fateful walk from a year previous! But that’s a different story…)

  I read a recent post on Revelife, and I couldn’t help but reflect on my own experience of being poor.
  Growing up, I didn’t really understand what it was to be poor. I don’t come from a wealthy family, but we always seemed to have everything we needed and most everything we wanted. I got twenty dollars every two weeks for allowance, and I thought that was plenty of money for the things I wanted. So when years later I arrived at the Jesuit novitiate and found out we were given $75 a month, I was probably the only person there who didn’t gawk; heck, that was nearly TWICE what I grew up with! Now that I have $150 a month, I’m really “rolling in the dough!”
  After a novice undergoes the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius (30-day silent retreat) and after Hospital Experiment (I spent five weeks at our Jesuit “retirement” home), each novice in my province goes on a thirty-day pilgrimage. What is a pilgrimage, you ask? Well, here is how it went down for us, at least.

  -You discern a grace you would like to seek; I wanted to see an old place with new eyes.
  -You discern where you can best open yourself to that grace; I chose to begin in Cedar Falls, Iowa, where I had spent two years in school just before entering the Jesuits. I decided I would spend two weeks there, begging money for busfare to Lewiston, Maine to stay with the Shakers.
  -You pack your bag; I had a backpack with three t-shirts, a pair of bluejeans, a few pairs of socks and underwear, deodorant, toothpaste, etc., plus a satchel with a couple of books, some homemade hardtack, and a waterbottle. I also wore my beat up cowboy hat, my duster (in case of rain), my hiking boots, t-shirt and bluejeans.
  -You get a letter saying who you are, what you are doing, and “call this number if you don’t believe me.”
  -You get a phone card, just in case.
  -You get a one-way bus ticket to your starting destination.
  -You get $35 cash.
  -You get dropped off at the bus station.

  Needless to say, this is the part of Jesuit formation that all the mothers are terrified of.

  So there I was at the Greyhound station in St. Paul, Minnesota, watching something on TV about Monticello. I realized that for the next thirty days, I was a homeless beggar, something I knew next to nothing about. One of my reasons for choosing Cedar Falls was because I remember there being a lot of churches in a relatively small city. Wouldn’t be interesting to see how all of them serve the poor by actually being poor myself and relying on them? Matthew 25, about clothing, feeding, etc. the least of Christ’s people echoed in my head as the theme of my journey, and I was keen on seeing how people I encountered were living that Gospel in how they treated me, suddenly one of those “least.” I also knew that there were yet in Cedar Falls many people who would remember me from the previous year, who would likely want me to come stay with them, eat with them, and I was adamant within my own mind that I would not rely on those who already knew me. What kind of experience of poverty would that be if I just relied on people I knew would help me? Oh no, I was hard core. No sympathy for me!

  It takes three hours to travel by car from St. Paul to Cedar Falls; it takes Greyhound fifteen hours. After an incredibly long bus ride, and after spending a few of my precious dollars on McDonalds for breakfast (the first of many “meals” to come!), I arrived in Waterloo, Iowa, which has grown together with Cedar Falls and makes up the eastern half of the great midwestern metroplex, if you will. I then walked about seven miles from the bus station to the University of Northern Iowa and figured I would stop in and surprise maje_charis who, I knew, was worrying terribly about me. Evil friend that I am, all I told her about pilgrimage was that I was going to try and make my way toward Maine.

  It was strange to be walking through that familiar campus again; certainly everything was so different now. I saw how busy everyone was, how focused they were on going from point A to point B, and were I was with less than thirty bucks to my name, and all my worldly possessions in a backpack. I was tired, sweaty, and hot from a long walk and felt like I had a cloak that made me invisible.

  After surprising my dear friend, she convinced me to stay on her floor at least for the night or until I found somewhere else to stay. I tried to argue, but in the end I decided to stay. I went to Mass with her that night (being it was Sunday), and was completely overwhelmed with all the people who were thrilled to see me! They all asked what I was doing, and I said, “I’m on pilgrimage for the next month, but I’m going to do my begging around the city at the different churches.”

  But they practically THREW their money at me! They were so insistent, and I was unable to refuse their generosity. The deacon’s wife even wrote me a check… for $100. Now, before novitiate I had worked summer jobs, and checks of several hundred dollars no longer humbled me. But when I had so little, a hundred dollars may as well have been a million. I didn’t think to count all the money that night; I was kind of in shock. So while my novice brothers were still riding buses and trains all over the continent, sleeping in parking garage stairwells, in ditches, and who knows where else, I was on an air mattress in an all-girl’s dorm on my old campus with two of my best friends high up on their bunk beds, leading them in prayer before we all went to sleep. Here I’m still thinking I’m the poor one!

  Tuesday I was all excited to begin begging. I decided that I wanted to be as poor as possible. I realized that since I was begging from Christians, even my Christianity was a wealth that could sway things in my favor. Christ didn’t ask us to take care of only our fellow Christians, but everyone. So my “sales pitch” was:

  “Hello, my name is Jacob ******, and I am trying to make my way to Maine and I need money for bus fare. Can your church help me at all?”

  That morning I walked down the road to where I knew there were at least three churches. I was really psyched because I was going to start with the furthest one, a newish megachurch on the edge of town that was very popular with the young folks. Their website was full of mission opportunities and all sorts of things and I thought, “Surely, they can spare a few dollars for the poor!”

  So I walked (much further than I anticipated!) three miles to this enormous church. It was virtually brand new, and when I walked in I thought I’d stumbled into a trendy conference center. There was a daycare, a cafe, and all sorts of things. Their worship space was a big auditorium with a stage, high-tech lighting with spinning, multicolored things, big speakers, the works. Wow! But not a cross in sight, except (I think) a large, stainless-steel one in the main lobby.

  After looking around, I saw a desk with a woman sitting on the other side.

  “Please excuse me, my name is Jacob ****, and I’m trying to make my way to Maine etc.”

  “I’m sorry. We don’t do that.”

  “…may I use your restroom?”

  “Sure, it’s around the corner.”

  Yes, the restrooms were very nice.

  I was a little shocked though. I came expecting amazing things here and… nothing but some nice smelling handsoap. On my way out, the woman asked, “What’s in Maine?” Thinking I had a second chance, I told her that I had an opportunity to stay with a religious community there, but I had to find my own way. She wished me luck and I was back on the road. I remembered the Gospel passage about shaking the dust from one’s sandals, but I resisted the temptation. I was just so… hurt, frankly, that I just kind of walked and tried to think about what this all meant.

  After a few minutes walking back toward the university (looking forward to two more churches with more than a little nervousness) I heard a voice.

  “Hey!”

  Looking behind me, I saw an African-American man jogging toward me. “Me?”

  “Yeah! Yeah, sir, ‘scuse me.”

  He caught his breath and asked if I was a member of that “big church over there.” He had asked them for money because he had none. He just got back from visiting his sick aunt in LA and would not be paid until Friday. He had asked them for twenty bucks just so he could eat for a couple of days, and all they offered him was busfare to Waterloo (I know! Where was my offer?!?!).

  “I’m sorry, I don’t belong to that church; in fact, I was asking them for money, too. Best of luck to you!”

  Looking a little disappointed he ran across the road and started knocking on doors. I walked on, a lump in my stomach getting heavier and heavier… because I knew I had a pocket full of money. However, I didn’t mention this to him because the way I saw it, we were both poor and in need. That church should have helped us; we are the least, right?

  But as I walked along, listening as he went door to door across the street, I replayed Matthew 25 over and over again in my mind. Then it hit me: sure, we may both be poor…

  …but in this moment of him and me, HE was the least. Christ didn’t exempt anyone, not even the poor, from helping the poor. He said, “Help the poor; yes, that means YOU.”

  It was like being struck by lightening. I suddenly called out, “Hey!” He stopped and crossed the street again.

  “Hey, look, I have some friends I can call on. Would ten bucks help you out?”

  “Aw man, if you’ve got twenty…”

  I grit my teeth and handed him twenty of my “hard earned” dollars. He gave an enthusiastic thanks and bolted off to find something to eat. It was a strange feeling, giving away something so seemingly precious to me. But then I remembered how easily that money in particular came to me: freely, from people that cared about me. This man obviously had no one… except for me.

  The next church turned me away also, and the one after that had open doors but no one home! I looked in on their worship spaces too, just out of curiosity, sort of the anthropological aspect of my pilgrimage. They were more obviously places of worship to me, but still didn’t feel like home.

  When I returned to campus, there was to my surprise a bagpiper and free food at the food of our big, beautiful clock tower. I chowed down on some burgers and chips before heading over to the Performing Arts Building. To my joy the times for choir rehearsal had not changed, and I sat in on one of my chorus groups. One of the members, a wonderful young Christian woman named Rose (now married with two children; they grow up so fast!) invited me back to her room to catch up. We chatted there and while I was talking she grabbed her check book and wrote a check… for twenty dollars!

  After that great consolation I returned to my “lodgings,” feeling compelled to count my money. I thought that perhaps saying, “I needed money for busfare” sounded too much like, “will you buy my ticket?” My target was $300… and after two days and no success in begging, I had been graciously given all but $34 of what I needed. Was I grateful? No! I was furious that two churches had turned me away over so little an amount! But I calmed down and was grateful that I had so little to beg the next day; surely some church would help me since my needs were so small?

  The next day I visited at least a dozen different churches, only about half of which were even open. I had a very nice chat with a Lutheran pastor, asking about consubstantiation (since I didn’t know anything about it), and I saw more spaces of worship (still not finding a sense of home), but ultimately was turned away except for two.

  The first was a Presbyterian church. I was invited to speak with the pastor, who asked me some simple questions. I gave my pitch, explained a little about why I was trying to get to Maine, and told the truth about everything (but did not mention being Christian, nor a Jesuit novice on pilgrimage, or anything that would give me an advantage over, say, an atheist hitchhiker). She then told me that her church sets aside a small amount of money in their budget every month in order to help people with immediate, small monetary need. She also said that she doesn’t give to the same person twice, and since she’d never seen me before and since it didn’t seem like I was going to do anything bad with the money. She also gave me her business card and asked me to try and call or email her once I got to where I was going.

  Victory! Now I just needed $24 more and I was set! Nothing could stop me!

  Except several more closed churches.

  Finally, though, the last church I could see loomed before me: St. Patrick’s Catholic Church. My heart sank; what if my own Church, the very Church I was considering giving my entire life to in the Jesuits, turned me away? Instead of looking for someone to talk to, I immediately went into the chapel and was just filled with peace. The tabernacle tugged at my heart, and I went and sat with Jesus Christ, asking Him to give me courage and to help me trust Him. This was home; it was here that my heart truly belonged, here in the presence of my King, the house of my Friend, my broken sinful heart kneeling before His broken pure Heart, given to me, beggar that I am (and I never had to ask).

  Confident that Christ wanted me to ask this parish for help, I started looking around. I even passed a shopping cart full of donated food items, with a sign that mentioned “Matthew 25!” Eventually I found a hallway with several offices, but every door was shut except for… the pastor! I would have to ask the priest; what if a PRIEST turned me away?!?!?!?!?

  Standing there nervously, I held my hat in my hands.

  “Excuse me…”

  The priest looked over from a conversation he was having with one of his coworkers. “Hello! Can I help you?”

  “My name is Jacob ****** and I am trying to make my way to Maine. I need $24… can your church help me a little?”

  Without a word, without any questions, without any hesitation at all he reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, opened it, and peered into it with a look of surprise on his face.

  “Well what do you know… I have EXACTLY $24 in my wallet! Here you go!”

  Can you even imagine the joy in my heart? With that $24, I felt like the richest man in the world.

  “Are you sure? I…”

  The coworker looked at the priest with a big smile on her face as the priest said, “As far as I am concerned, I was just holding onto that for you.”

  I couldn’t contain myself! I told him that he had just helped out a Jesuit novice on pilgrimage. Boy was he surprised! He excitedly asked me about other Jesuits that he knew and we talked for a big before I moved on, confident that I wanted to be a priest more than ever, full of an even greater love for the Church of my birth and baptism. I was praising God all the way back to campus, and several days later I had my ticket to Maine, as well as a deeper understanding of an essential Gospel teaching.

  • 8:27 pm
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