I was talking with one of the kids at my work and this is probably the funniest things anybody has ever said to me at work (note: he was very drunk when he said this).
So you know I’m a straight man, Dan. But there’s this guy who has a crush on me. Whatever, I’m a straight man. But I love people a lot, right? I just have so much love for everybody and maybe, if it came down to it, if this let this guy know that he was loved, then maybe I would fuck him. Maybe I would fuck him, and Mike and Darren… But don’t worry, Dan, I’m not going to fuck you.
Wow. I’ve never had a youth reassure me that he wouldn’t fuck me! I was trying hard to keep a straight face but it was pretty impossible. Thankfully he was too drunk to remember any of this conversation in the morning.
That’s all.

Finally — although this may sound exaggerated to believers, and crazy to nonbelievers — these poor may inspire us to repeat what the centurion said at the foot of the cross, watching Jesus die, bloody and asphyxiated: truly, these are the sons and daughters of God.
~ Jon Sobrino
Another youth died last week. That’s the third one since January — at least the third one that we know about. An email was sent out to all our staff so that those who wanted to could attend the funeral. It would be nice for some to go, after all, no family would be attending.
Over the last few years I have become much too acquainted with death. It is tiring watching Jesus die alongside of these little ones — Jesus a victim of drugs, of trauma, of violence and of suicide.
Yes, these are the sons and daughters of God. But, Lord, how long must we endure crucifixion, how long until we too come to know the resurrection Spirit? I am tired of only seeing Christ crucified. Where is Jesus the risen Lord?
It seems to me that as long as the mediators of God’s presence refuse to fulfill their vocation, as long as the Church, the priesthood of all believers, abandon its calling, we will be left with only a crucified Christ. When the Church returns to being the Church then I will hope to see the Spirit of the resurrection birthed in these little ones. Until then I have little hope. Until then I can only mourn the crucifixion of the children that my God holds dear to his heart.
The old spiritual says that, “I was there when the crucified my Lord,” and we all were. We all are there. It is not only that Jesus died for our sins, it is that today God and his children are being crucified because we are too apathetic, too selfish, and too distracted to do anything to prevent it.
The prophet Isaiah announces that “the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces, and the reproach of his people he will take away from all the earth.” Woe to those whom the Lord finds dry-eyed because they could not bring themselves to solidarity with the poor and suffering of this world! If we are to receive from God the tender consolation promised by the prophet, we must make our own the needs of the oppressed; our hearts must be moved at seeing a wounded person by the wayside, be attuned to the sufferings of others, and be more sensitive to persons in conflict and confusion than to “the order of the day.”
~ Gustavo Gutierrez

And, in the end, we talked affectionately and laughed a little. What else could we do? I was on my back in the hallway wondering at the song that filled the silence. It spoke of a beauty that would not remain broken, and a fire that would not be quenched.
I went to work and watched a woman lurching and flailing in front of the window. One of my coworkers made a comment about how junkies — at least those whose bodies are riddled with the drug — move like zombies.
“It’s like Shaun of the Dead out there.”
I can’t help but think that she is dancing, her body pleading with God for mercy; dancing, dancing, dancing, desparate beyond hope, he must take notice.
“Look at me, God. Here I am. Here, here, here. I am dancing for you. Dancing and dying, and you are nowhere to be found. Look at me, why won’t you look at me?”
There is something so sacred here that it knocks the wind out of me. I want to join her dance.
Instead I head upstairs and find one of my girls crying.
“I don’t know if it was rape or sexual assault. I said, ‘no’ and he said, ‘you know you want it.’ He used protection though. Is that rape?”
We know that there is no promised land
or promised stars.
We know it, Lord, we know it,
and we go on working with you.
We know that a thousand times over
we will hitch our wagon anew
and that a thousand times over
we shall erect anew
our old shelter.
We know that for this we shall receive
neither ration nor wage.
We know it, Lord, we know it,
and we go on working with you.
And we know
that over this dwelling
a thousand times,
and a thousand times again,
we must perform the same tragicomic trick
without praise
and without applause.
We know it, Lord, we know,
and we go on working with you.
And you know, Lord, that we know,
that we all know, all of us,
(Where is the Devil?)
that today you can lay a bet with anyone,
a safer bet than with Job and with Faust.
~Leon Filipe, Versos y oraciones de caminante

One of the reasons why I tend to stay away from movies is that I just can’t handle them anymore. The premises for too many movies — things that others approach fundamentally as fiction — have become a part of my lived reality.
I can’t watch violent movies, or tragedies — I’ve seen too much violence and tragedy in my own life and in the lives of those I love.
I can’t even watch beautiful movies with happy endings — it reminds me too much of all those who were beautiful who never made it to a happy ending.
Every time I lose a kid it’s like losing another lover. Not that there’s anything sexual in the relationship. I just mean that in each of these kids I see a type of beauty that is indescribable, that takes my breath away, that fills me with wonder. And every time a kid overdoses, every time a kid is murdered, commits suicide, relapses, is carried away by their pimp, or whatever — every time something like that happens I’m left with an emptiness, with a little piece of me ripped out, with another wound that I know will leave a scar.
And I’m tired of it. I’m tired of hoping for happy endings that never come about. I’m tired of watching my friends get tortured to death.
Michael’s gone. Last time I saw him he had two black eyes and a broken nose. He owes a lot of money to a lot of people.
David’s gone. He’s locked-up in the psych ward and he can’t seem to remember anything.
And Leslie’s gone. They’re giving her free speed and heroine — and it won’t be long now till they’re pimping her out.
Sometimes there’s a happy ending. But not usually.
It’s not that the odds are insurmountable, it’s just that the apathy of the people around us is too great. If a few more people actually cared then the odds could be overcome. But I don’t think that will happen anytime soon.
So I hope you make good, I really do. But if or when you do, can you please remember my friends.

Ann Lamott repeats a Hasidic story about a rabbi who tells people that if they studied Torah, it would put scripture on their hearts. A student asks the rabbi, “Why on our hearts, and not in them?” The rabbi answered, “Only God can put scripture inside. But reading sacred texts can put it on your hearts, and then when your heart breaks, the holy words will fall inside.”
If we encounter Jesus in “the least of these” then I think that journeying in love relationships with marginalised people is something like putting Jesus on our hearts. Yet such relationships, when they are genuine, cannot help but lead us to a place of broken-heartedness. A place of crying out to God. When we love such people with a real love, then our hearts will break and Jesus will also be in our hearts.
(In the same way if we are also to be Jesus to these people then when their hearts are broken we have the chance that we’ll fall into the holes — that Jesus will fall into the holes — instead of the other shit that people force into their hearts just to stay alive.)
Billy Graham, you got it wrong. You don’t get Jesus in your heart by saying a pithy prayer. You get Jesus in your heart by journeying with his precious ones — the crucified people of today.
~
Leslie is a sweetheart. There is a softness to her, a gentleness in her words and in the way that she looks at you. She’s the kind of kid that you want to hug, the kind of kid you want to take under your wing and say, “It’s okay, you don’t have to be strong anymore. Rest now. Play now. We’ll be strong for you.”
Leslie has cerebral palsy and a learning disability. Sometimes it takes her a while to learn things and she falls down more often than most people.
Oh, and Leslie’s mom started selling her into the sex trade when she was just a little girl — not that she’s much bigger now.
Ever since she moved into our program we’ve been worried about the men that Leslie’s been hanging around with. We’ve talked with her about being safe, about setting up boundaries, about trying to avoid places where she might get trapped. I had a good chat with her the other day. She says the guys she hangs with continually offer her drugs for sex — and maybe there was a time in her past when she would of done that — but she respects herself too much to consider the offer. She refuses and she likes the way that makes her feel about herself.
And then one night Leslie didn’t come home. I sat at the desk all night long hoping she would come in… but she didn’t. She came in the following evening flying high and totally wrecked. She was crying and trying to get money out of her savings. Staff refused to give her money and she fled. One of the RAs found her curled up in the back alley in the fetal position. It turns out that a some of the guys she was hanging with had dragged her into an alley, forced a bunch of pills down her throat and then ripped her pants off. They were grabbing at her and…
She’s rocking as she tells her story and she flinches every time a guy walks by. Now she can’t eat, she can’t sleep, and she can’t stop crying.
“I feel empty. I feel like I’m dead. And then sometimes I feel so angry… I’ve started cutting myself again — I hadn’t done that for a year and a half.”
Leslie is one of my kids, she’s one of my people, and I love her. I don’t give a fuck about what kind of special relationship you think you have with your god — if you’re not concretely journeying in love relationships with people like Leslie then I’m half inclined to say your faith is bullshit. But maybe that’s just me lashing out because my friends are getting gang raped on a pretty regular basis.
~
Ann Lamott tells a story about A.J. Muste in her book Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith. A.J. Muste used to stand in front of the White House during the Vietnam War. He would go, night after night, rain or shine, and stand with a single lit candle. One night he was asked, “Mr. Muste, do you really think you are going to change the policies of this country by standing out here alone at night with a candle?” He replied, “I don’t do it to change the country, I do it so the country doesn’t change me.”
Listening to Leslie makes me think of Mr. Muste. I am not listening to her because I think I can save her — I wasn’t there in the alley when they forced her down onto the ground all covered in “piss and shitty garbage.” I wasn’t there when they tore at her clothes and her body. I suppose that god was there bleeding and crying and feeling helpless along with her — so I’ll do the same now. We may not be able to save each other but perhaps being together will give us the strength we need as we wait for God’s salvific action.
So I’ll hold my candle, and I’ll smile and try to look brave when you come by and tell me what a wonderful thing I’m doing — before you drive away.
I’m not trying to give my life meaning
by demeaning you
and I would like to state for the record
I did everything that I could do
I’m not saying that I’m a saint
I just don’t want to live that way
no, I will never be a saint
but I will always say
squint your eyes and look closer
I’m not between you and your ambition
I am a poster girl with no poster
I am thirty-two flavors and then some
and I’m beyond your peripheral vision
so you might want to turn your head
cause someday you might find you’re starving
and eating all of the words you said
~ Ani DiFranco

David was a tough guy when he moved into our program. He came in talking about fucking bitches and bashing faggots. David rides girls like he rides his skateboard, fast, hard, and every now and again somebody gets hurt. He did some time when he was younger — he’s only 18 now — and I think he got in with some white supremacists. I’m not sure but, every now and again, there seems to be a veiled racism hanging under his words.
You see, where David comes from, they don’t give you respect. Respect is something you earn, something that you take, and it’s only given grudgingly.
In our briefings we would talk about David, we were constantly warning him about his language, his behaviour towards women, and members of the LGBTQ community that participate in our program. We were all pretty sure that things were going to come to a head one day, that David was going to explode, that we would have to come down hard on him for him to realise that we’re serious about what we say.
But David never exploded and we never had to come down hard on him. He just… changed. There was no big break through, no big blow-out, nothing. Suddenly the way he talked was different, suddenly he was treating queer and trannie youths respectfully. Suddenly he seemed just like any other kid that’s hungry for love.
And that’s what love is. Love is respect that is given freely. David never had to earn our respect, never had to take it from us. We were giving it freely to him since the day he moved in. And it changed him. David chose to respond. He suddenly found himself in a new and safe place and that enabled him to drop all his guards, to let his shoulders down, and be more like somebody he wants to be — not somebody he has had to be in order to survive. And so he did just that. He dropped his guards. He smiles and says that he’s happy to see me.
The thing is…
The thing is that when I compare myself to David I end up thinking he’s a far better person than I am. You see, I also had found a safe place, a place where I think I was loved more deeply than I had ever been. I too had somebody give me an unearned respect. But instead of letting down my guards and trusting like a child, instead of trusting like David trusted, I ran. I wrecked everything and I disrespected — disrespected in the deepest sense of the word, a sense which I only expect people involved with street culture to understand — the person who loved me and trusted me. With all my talk about love, and trust, and willing vulnerability, I find myself to be a more hurtful kid than David.
let it go
the damage in your heart
let it go
the damage in your heart
i can’t tell you how the words have made me feel
i can’t tell you how the words have made me feel
~ Weezer

I was standing in a ruined house, the flashlight picking up dust, and insulation, and a single infant’s sock. Grey and pink and white faded to yellow. A few old items behind the mirrors and a stack of Christmas cards written in Greek. “Congratulations on the birth of your child.”
I used to go to that house late at night, pushing through the overgrown yard and the hedges that crowded around the porch at the side door. Climbing the stairs, walking over the landing and into empty rooms. Once I climbed into the attic and scrambled out of a hole in the roof. I leaned against the chimney top and smoked quietly while cars of bar-hoppers drifted home on Bayview Ave. Once my flashlight batteries died when I was in the basement. I wandered from room to room in pitch darkness before I finally found the stairs back up to the kitchen where pin-pricks of moonlight stabbed through the boarded windows.
The house was stripped of everything but baby paraphernalia. Behind the mirrors, medicine for toddlers; in a side room, a tiny bathtub and a jolly jumper; in the bedrooms an old stuffed rabbit, and a plastic boat – and of course, the Christmas cards that I found in the fireplace.
Sometimes, walking out in the early hours of the morning, a pair of deer would pass by, damp from the dew and the mist rising from the creek.
I don’t know why I’m drawn to such places. In the city I am drawn to the old, the decaying, and the dilapidated. Abandoned buildings, alleyways, and spaces under bridges. There is a sorrow in such places that is also peaceful. There is a silence that is pregnant. It is full of voices lost in the passage of time. I walk in the midst of stories I will never know, gathering hints and glimpses of lives that I will never meet.

A while back I had the opportunity to talk with a class of undergrad students about journeying in love relationship with the marginalised.
On the evening I spent with them we went on a walk through some neighborhoods in Toronto stopping at various places: a hospice where people with AIDS go to die, the “romper room” (a street where johns go to find child prostitutes), Regent Park (a neighborhood of intensely concentrated poverty and violence), etc.
After the walk the professor asked her students, “Where do you imagine Jesus being in those places? What do you imagine him doing?”
One by one the students responded in pretty similar ways, “Well, I imagine him on the basketball court playing with the boys there.” “I imagine him holding hands with a girl walking home from school.” And so on and so forth. All playful, happy pictures of Jesus as the strong, loving friend.
I looked hard for that Jesus in those neighborhoods and I never found him there. I don’t think he is there. The only Jesus I see in those neighborhoods is the Jesus that is crucified. I see Jesus stabbed with the boy on the corner, Jesus weeping with the girl turning a trick in a stairwell, Jesus bleeding to death on the sidewalk. I see a Jesus that is weak, powerless, bleeding, and dying.
The reason I don’t see the other Jesus is because the people of God have abandoned these places and these people. Until the people of God return to journeying in love relationships with the marginalised, the marginalised won’t have much of a chance to know Jesus in his strength. Jesus as the resurrected Lord of the cosmos will only appear when the people of God return announcing the good news of the kingdom – freedom for captives, sight for the blind, the forgiveness of sins, and the new creation of all things.
I looked over the class and told the students that the only Jesus I saw in the neighborhood was their presence. The only hope that these people have is that maybe some of us will return. Until we return they will only experience the hidden dying Jesus.
So come, children of God. Come, let us journey alongside of these precious ones. Let us bear on our bodies the brand-marks of Christ so that these beloved but broken ones may come to know the strength and love of the risen Lord. Let us move into crucifixion so that others can experience resurrection.

And he told them all about these places, of the great hills and valleys of that far country. And the love of them must have been in his voice, for they were all silent and listened to him. He told them too of the sickness of the land, and how the grass had disappeared, and of the dogas that ran from hill to valley, and valley to hill; how it was a land of old men and women, and mothers and children; how the maize grew barely to the height of a man; how the tribe was broken, and the house broken, and the man broken; how when they went away, many never came back, many never wrote any more. How this was true not only in Ndotsheni, but also in the Lufafa, and the Imhlavini, and the Umkomaas, and the Umzimkulu.
– Cry the Beloved Country, 52.
~
Please…
If it weren’t for the tears that keep swelling in my throat and stealing my voice I would tell you a story. Not of far off places with hills and valleys but of places that are near with great buildings and dark alleys.
Please wait…
If you had the time I would speak the story of children.
I would tell of sons and daughters, boys and girls, fathers and mothers. Here too the grass has disappeared and the concrete has cracked. The city, the people, the children, are broken.
Please…
If I could speak eloquently maybe you would understand, maybe your heart too would break.
Don’t go…
If my voice were stronger I would command you to stay.
Please…
If I could make you understand perhaps then you would join in a journey with the disappeared and disappearing.
Come back…
This is true. This is here.
~
But no. My stories have no power to stir an audience. My voice cannot create transformation. Searching for thunder I only find a whisper. A stuttering that fades to silence. And awkwardness. And grief. I cannot tell a story that will make you care.
And so I stay. I wait. I come back. Again and again. You will not listen and so I will show you my story. I will become my story.
You will not journey with the broken and so I will become the brokenness that you can see.
You will not journey with the grieving and so I will become the grief that you can see.
You will not journeying with the weak and so I will be become the weakness that you can see.
Perhaps then you too will join us.
~
Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much.
– Cry, the Beloved Country, 111.
~
My beloved, how I have missed you. Come child, we will cry together and perhaps our warmth will get us through the colder hours of the night.
I will take your tears and give them a voice.
I will take your groanings and give them an audience.
I will take your despair and give it hope.
I will take your loneliness and give it fellowship.
I will take your hate and give it love.
I will take your rage and give it peace.
The sun of righteousness will rise. With healing in its wings.