A Pauper's Rite of Passage

Here in Southwest Philly, routine has etched itself deeply into the lives of my teammates and I. Our usual four day volunteer week was interrupted as it switched into a four-day weekend on behalf of Thanksgiving, in which we spent with the family across the street of our home sweet home. 

We’re entering the last stretch of the 1st trimester of our Mission Year adventure, and to think that our time here has already flown past the way it has leaves me wondering what to do with the bittersweet bubbling I‘ve been experiencing in my mind and heart.

It has come to be known to me that quite a lot has occurred over the past few weeks, including happenings in the month of October that I still feel somewhat unable to fully process. The idea that many events and encounters have happened and realizing that I had found little opportunity to reflect on these occurrences has left me feeling somewhat unsettled. Perhaps that is result of immersing yourself quite rapidly in a new environment filled with all new people, streets and buildings.

However, I was encouraged by one of my teammates today to meditate on and write about my PROP experience, as I had mentioned to her how I touched it briefly on my blog but have yet to tackle and reflect on it fully; even in my conversation with friends, I have spared much of the details and thoughts concerning my own experiencing during this outing.

A Pauper's Right of Passage

PROP is an acronym for Pauper’s Rite of Passage, an idea birthed from the mind of Mission Year’s academic director and the teacher for my Theology of Poverty class, Chris Lahr. The idea of PROP was to spend the day out in the streets with no possessions, no money, no cell phone devices -- nada. Chris had introduced this challenge to us upon a discussion he brought us into during our weekly citywide gathering that called into question common approaches with outreach to the homeless and those who spend much of their time in the streets. I wasn’t particularly daunted by this challenge at first, especially sense before coming to Philadelphia, I had already spent parts of my weekends in college hanging out with hitchhikers, punks and houseless people that I met on the streets.

However, it wasn’t until we began the challenge that things got… well… awkward. All of a sudden, I was expected to participate in this “rite of passage”, thrown out into street to experience solitude and a mobile meditation, encouraged to build connections without an agenda. As I found myself wandering through the city with my housemate, Michael, we found ourselves wrestling a lot with what we were challenged with and what we could possibly learn. 

We weren’t to pretend that we were homeless or street kids in order to "see what it's like". But, now, as I look back, I think that what I experienced was what it is like to be naked and vulnerable in a world where some are able to get away with being covered up easier than others. I gave thought to the implications that some of the interactions that occurred had made between me and the persons who interacted with me. I found myself more able to sink into casual conversation with those who saw me to be “on their level” or as “some thirsty kid with nothing better to do”. Perhaps, having nothing to do and nowhere to go but stand outside a 7Eleven wishing for a bottle of water was a type of solidarity that allowed the folks who experience life on the streets daily to be vulnerable with me. In turn, I found it more difficult to engage with those who didn’t see me that way, those who would beg to me as if they could see the manmade difference of privilege between us, like they would to the people who passed in front of us. Something about having someone beg to you right off the bat tends to establish what type of relationship might result, Michael mused. Perhaps it was that revelation, that made me feel unsettled when I gave the begging man my cup of water, and we moved on. It was like I used my power and privilege -- my stuff-- as a replacement for myself, as a means to not offer up my own brokenness; the fact that I‘m in need, too. And it’s hard knowing what to do when it appeared at the time as though the only thing that the one who begged to me expected that I might give was my shallow stuff as opposed to my time, my story -- me.

As all 21 of us Mission Year kids gathered together upon reflection that night, some shared stories about their experience with panhandling. One guy in particular sharing with us that he began to appreciate the “no“s that acknowledged and heard his request as opposed to the obliviousness passerbys would fain. As many of us experimented with panhandling, we realized as we were overlooked by people we would normally identify as “our tribe” how much each of us overlook the brothers and sisters who may not appear to be like us, the very people whom Jesus called us to love. It was one of those occurrences which causes you to realize with a new sense how truly poor we are. All of us are. 

So now, as I pass folks everyday on my way to Esperanza, I pass both those people who appear broken and in need and those who can cover it up easily like so much of us can with our wealth, privilege and titles. I continue to wrestle with what it means to be myself in a hurting and unjust world, one in which individuals continue to choose blindness, to turn its head to the poverty of others as well as their own, one that continues to dismiss the need for the grace and love G-d has left hanging perpetually in the air, ready to be claimed by anyone who wishes to have redeemed the brokeness that we all share, regardless of where we come from and what we have. I’m excited (and nervous) about how G-d will be using these revelations through out my life and as I progress through this program with my housemates. I encourage you to pray for all of us here.