"Where is God?"

Arturo lives in a tent on Skid Row. He avoids the missions because there are too many "locos" there. He keeps a big metal pipe by his side at night for protection. Just the other day he had to threaten someone who wanted to take his belongings. He was exhausted during our conversation - fear of early morning street sweeps, theft, or criminals keep the homeless from truly resting. Also like the other thousands of homeless men in Los Angeles, Arturo hungers for intimacy, paying for the companionship of women to ease the pangs of loneliness.

I was on coffee duty, passing out steaming styrofoam cups, doctoring them up with powdered non-dairy creamer and sugar, when I noticed someone was staring at me from across the sidewalk. He wasn’t staring in a creepy way, but in a "I want to talk to you" way so I walked over and started a conversation. He told me he had some questions: “I wonder...can you tell me... where is God?" I can see his face - it’s tired, discouraged, but earnest.

Putting on my Christian hat, I told him that God was right there with him, next to him, inside him, all around him. “God is here on Skid Row.” He shook his head, "No, no, no... Look around you. God isn't here." I did look around. If I lived on Skid Row, if I woke up every morning to heroin, urine-stained sidewalks, mental disability, litter, police harassment, would I be able to see God when I looked around me? That’s a difficult question. I've never even come close to poverty in my lifetime, much less homelessness, much less Skid Row. I don’t think it would be too much of a stretch to say that my reaction might be pretty similar to Arturo’s: frustration, anger, and resentment towards God - I’d probably throw in some entitlement too.

Although I like to believe (and have even seen) that God is very present on Skid Row, I knew that my experience on 6th and Gladys was very different from Arturo’s. Maybe I’ve been reading too much Henri Nouwen, but I felt God wanted me to enter in, to displace myself in this man’s pain and suffering rather than give him a sermon on Christian faith before driving back to my cozy apartment and PhD program in Westwood.

He recounted quite candidly that other Christians had told him God was his friend, but from his experience, he couldn’t see God as anything but his enemy. After attending AA and NA meetings and cleaning up his life for a few years, he recognizes that there is still a struggle in his mind: “I feel like there’s a wall there.” He's still on Skid Row, without a job, without money, and lonely. He showed me a pin on his bag he got at an AA meeting with the serenity prayer: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." Arturo struggles with that first phrase - why does he have to accept the things that he can't change first? Why does he have to accept his life on Skid Row and trust that God is good? Unfortunately, I didn’t have a very clear answer for him.

I asked him if he ever told God how he felt, if he ever asked God why he was on Skid Row. He sounded very tired "I don't want to talk to God." Even when I offered to pray for him throughout the week, he asked that I do not use his name while talking to God.

I told Arturo that God loved him. He didn’t want him to be alone, depressed, and distant. That he longed to hear from Arturo, his beloved son. I said I'd be back next week to check up on how he's doing, and that I'd be praying for him.

But Arturo's tired, dejected face is still fixed on my mind.