Where is the home for the angry?

Wow. I'm really in the writing mood. We'll see how long this lasts once I start writing papers for school again. But for now I guess I have a lot to say :)

I've been volunteering at a maternity shelter, which provides housing for women who are pregnant and homeless. The goal of the program is to cure homelessness in these women, giving them the opportunity to start school, find a job, and learn how to be good mothers. It's a pretty remarkable and necessary program considering emergency shelters can be unsafe, unsanitary, and unstable places to be pregnant.

Anyway, I have many roles at this shelter - they are constantly in need of another set of hands, another gentle voice (haha) to answer the phone. One of the most challenging tasks for me has been conducting telephone interviews with women who are in need of housing. And this week's interviews were particularly difficult.

I had to turn down two women in a row because they had anger problems. Since this shelter offers housing, education, food, counseling, and opportunities for spiritual growth at no cost to the residents, it naturally receives many calls each week from women in need. There are enough applicants without anger problems that the staff will quickly reject one if they see even the hint of an "attitude."

But I can see why these two women were angry. Both had been abandoned by their boyfriends, fathers, and most male figures in their lives; they had grown up in poverty and likely experienced racism both overtly and indirectly. All of the sudden they find themselves pregnant and responsible for another life without any support from family or the father of the baby; oftentimes they fought parents who had encouraged them to get an abortion. After jumping around from a friend's house, to a run-down motel, to a homeless shelter, to the streets they are pretty frustrated, desperate for a safe, nurturing home for their child. Not to mention all the crazy hormonal things that go on for women when they're pregnant.

No wonder these women were so angry at me when I told them that the program wouldn't be a good fit for them. No wonder they demanded to know why. No wonder they became even more elated when I explained to them that their self-proclaimed anger problem would not do well in our intrusive group setting. One woman cried "well, don't you guys have counseling or something?" Yes, of course we do. And she could probably benefit from it - maybe even more than some of the women we are accepting in the program. But I didn't tell her that. I told her that that didn't matter anymore, she had already eliminated herself from the pool of applicants. I asked her if I could give her a referral to another maternity shelter.

Of course, we all knew that no other maternity shelter would take her for the same reasons we wouldn't. So I don't know if she will ever have the opportunity for counseling to work through her anger. I don't know if she will find a safe place to have her baby. I don't know how her baby could grow to be a healthy adult, who can learn to love him/herself and care for others.

We need something more.

Compassion

This morning I woke up early and drove to the beach, just north of Will Rogers. The fog was still resting on the surface of the blue-gray water, as I watched a sea lion bob across the shore. I jumped into the chilly water and let the cold soak into my skin.

I'm re-reading the book Compassion by Henri Nouwen and, once again, blown away by the intense and challenging call of Jesus as explained by Nouwen.

It seems that in today's culture we are constantly trying to prove to one another and to ourselves that we are valuable - that we are worthy, interesting, important, intelligent, funny, precious, beautiful, lovable. I find myself doing this all the time: in my interactions with my professors, when I meet new people, when I justify my actions and beliefs, when I update my facebook profile. I am fighting to prove that I am an interesting person, that I am unique, that you should want to get to know me.

Henri Nouwen, who left his professorship at Yale Divinity to live among the mentally disabled, reminds us:

"As long as our primary concern in life is to be interesting and thus worthy of special attention, compassion cannot manifest itself" (67).

This yearning for social acceptance (or recognition) gives us the sense that we have control over our lives, that everything improper and uncomfortable "can be kept outside the walls of our self-created fortress" (63). But from within this controlled atmosphere, how can we have compassion on those who are suffering? How can we realize solidarity with someone's pains when we are so focused on maintaining our own comfort?

The Gospels call us to a life of voluntary displacement - living intentionally in places of discomfort. Not because God wants us to suffer. Not because we want to be all non-comformist and "stick it to the man." But because Jesus lived in compassion with (translated literally from the Latin "suffering with") those in pain. It is only when we step outside ourselves, beyond our comfort zones, can we truly experience and express God's compassion.

Nouwen writes that "in voluntary displacement, we cast off the illusion of 'having it together' and thus begin to experience our true condition, which is that we, like everyone else, are pilgrims on the way, sinners in need of grace" (64).

So now I'm wondering, what does this mean for me and my life right now as a UCLA grad student. As Nouwen posits, this doesn't mean that we all need to give up our jobs and families and live among the poor, but rather ask ourselves "How can I come to understand and experience God's caring actions in the concrete situation in which I find myself?" (72)

Where do I feel displaced, alone, abandoned, out-of-touch?

How is God calling me into these places, and how do I experience his love more deeply there?

This passage is very challenging to me...