To Open A Door

"At that time Emperor Augustus ordered a census to be taken throughout the Roman Empire." Because of this imperial decree, everyone went to their father's hometown to be counted. But in Rome, as in every principality giving its loyalty to Caesar, there were those who did not count.

Mary, who "gave birth to her first son, wrapped him in cloths and laid him in a manger" did not count; neither did her baby. And there was no room for them in the inn.

Today when Congress orders a census to be taken throughout the American empire, we count women and children as well as men, at least most of them. Yet there are hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children who do not count, and for whom there is no room in the inn. This winter hundreds of God's homeless poor will freeze to death in barns and abandoned buildings, under hedges, and on park benches. Others will survive in these miserable quarters. Perhaps this Advent season, in some old basement behind the Hilton Hotel a child will be born.

In the U.S. there are between 250,000 and 500,000 homeless people, and the number is increasing daily. These are human beings who live and die on the streets. Some wander from city to city and reflect the lingering style of transients who made up the majority of homeless people 20 years ago. The Rescue Missions' and Salvation Army's programs and outreach are designed to reach such transients. But most homeless people today are not traditional transients; they are street people who live in the same city for long periods of time.

The homeless poor are living and dying on our streets. But from an official point of view they do not exist, because without residence a person is not counted--and not to be counted is not to count.

How can we count those who do not count? The National Coalition on Homelessness in New York City has worked with providers of shelter to get estimates of the numbers of homeless poor in the U.S. In New York City there are 36,000; Houston 15,000; Chicago 12,000; San Francisco 10,000; St. Louis 6,200; Washington, D.C. 5,700; and in Atlanta 3,500.

The U.S. has this growing population of street people because we are, in a sense, at war; these are the first U.S. refugees of our modern military policy. More and more of our budget goes for war and the preparation for war--for an arms race that produces fewer jobs and less capital outlay for people.

As the bombs get larger so does the street population. As the Pentagon eats more and more of our national budget, there is less and less bread for all. And among our homeless brothers and sisters are the literal wounded and disabled living without the hope of finding work or rest again. The wounded from our wars stalk the streets in pain and despair. (For example, 3,000 of the 10,000 homeless in San Francisco are Vietnam veterans.)

Unemployment, in part a product of weapons production, is a cause of homelessness. Thousands of men and women hunger for work as they starve for bread. Labor pools where the poor sell their labor by the hour or by the day have fewer jobs, though more people are swarming about their halls. Yet the homeless are not counted in official unemployment figures; nor are they considered in programs for relief.

Instead, large numbers of them are on the streets: women and men who are unemployed for the first time; black youths, who have never had a job and likely never will; and the elderly whose fixed incomes now provide shelter for only two or three weeks each month.

The deinstitutionalized mentally ill make up a significant part of the street population. Expecting to find a place in group homes or boarding houses upon their release, they have found no room in the inn and few who cared.

The movement of middle- and upper-class people into in-town neighborhoods has displaced poor people and often left them homeless. In a nation that has drastically withdrawn from building low-income housing, private enterprise is converting flop houses, cheap hotels, boarding houses, apartments, and houses with multifamily units into condominiums and residences for the well-to-do. Families evicted from apartments often find no place to turn: some live in cars, some in tents, some just disappear into the dark never to be counted again.

Reasons of the heart are another source of homelessness. There are those on the streets because of sin and the failure to use their talents and resources responsibly. A few choose the harsh life of the street over the rat race of the American way of life. Everyone on the streets hungers and thirsts for a better life and hopes for a turn toward justice in our society. I have knelt at night with a crying drunk man in my arms and heard him scream in pain, "Oh God, oh God, why can't I quit this liquor?"

"Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of wickedness,
to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,
and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover them,
and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?
(Isaiah 58:6,7)

God wanted Isaiah to shout this message because God loves the homeless poor and so identifies with them in Jesus Christ that God suffers harshly from homelessness. Surely our God loves us all--those in big houses as well as in no houses--but God sides in special and particular ways with the poor. Karl Barth called this "divine partiality."

Some say the homeless do not exist; others say they are lazy old bums; others say they are pitiful and sad people. But who do we say that they are? We say that they are our homeless Christ: wanderer and refugee in the city. The homeless poor are the beloved of God: the ones who have no hole like the fox nor nest like the bird but seek in the dark for a place to lay their heads. "I was a stranger and you received me in your homes....I tell you, whenever you did this for one of the least important of these sisters or brothers of mine, you did it for me" (Matthew 25: 35,40).

Each of us is called to serve Christ by serving the poor. We are sent into the world to preach good news to the poor, and to share our food with the hungry and open our homes to the homeless poor. To do so is a fundamental response to God's desire for right worship (Isaiah 58: 1-6), and a simple and direct way to begin the work of liberation for those bound by chains of oppression and yokes of injustice.

In Atlanta 900 laypeople and 50 ministers during the past three years have responded to Christ's simple call to share food and open doors to their church homes for street people. Generally, very few additional resources have been needed. Most churches have large rooms, kitchens, bathrooms, and some even have showers. Like taking up one's cross, the difficult part is the decision to do it--the life of discipleship and sharing is filled with joy and goodness.

On November 1,1979, Clifton Presbyterian opened its doors to 30 homeless men (although only five showed up that first cold night), and the doors have opened every night since then. Clifton is a small community-oriented church. Centering its life on peace and justice, the 25 members have turned the church building into a home-at-night for the homeless.

During the winters of 1981 and 1982, Central Presbyterian invited as many as 240 men and 12 women into its gym to sleep. Several other churches gave refuge last winter, and all plan to do the same this season: Oakhurst Baptist and First Presbyterian each give beds and food to 12 men and 12 women respectively. Trinity United Methodist shelters 50 men, as does All Saints Episcopal. The Open Door Community, a Presbyterian-Catholic Worker House, shares life with 20 men and eight women. This Christmas there will be more room in the inn; two new shelters are opening for families and one for men.

No pattern exists among the open churches except the lordship of the homeless Christ: small churches and large churches; downtown churches and neighborhood churches miles from the center of the city; rich churches and poor churches.

Lives have changed both among street people and the volunteers who spend the nights in the churches. Sunday school classes have formed support and prayer groups for those working with God's homeless friends. Pastors are preaching the gospel to the well-to-do (which is good news to the poor) and the Holy Spirit is manifest among many.

As sleeping space and tea and sandwiches are shared with the refugees and the wounded poor, we are given renewed understanding of our vocation as peacemakers. Life among the victims gives us strength to wage peace against the arms race. God softens our hearts and gives sight to us who are blind. Yes, there is good news; there is deep joy when we serve the homeless Christ, sharing food with the hungry and opening our homes to the homeless.

Yet there remain in Atlanta 1,500 whom we neither reach nor serve. As we struggle to open a door, many more are pushed out by a system that says those homeless ones do not count. We must turn again not to the good works of our hands but to the Holy One for mercy. Shelters are desperately needed, but so are permanent homes and justice in the market place.

We, the body of Christ, in any city, in any church or community, can follow the simple biblical mandate. Let us take the first step and be transformed by the homeless Christ and open our homes to the homeless poor.

Ed Loring was former pastor of Clifton Presbyterian Church in Atlanta and a founding member of the Open Door Community when this article appeared.