“Thin Places” on the Streets of Seattle

The young woman, who seemed to perhaps be homeless, seemed to be his friend. She was filled with compassion–toward him, toward us. She stayed there, sometimes protectively, until the situation resolved.

When we couldn’t resolve his question to his liking, he moved on to the real question.

Now, track with me here. This guy most likely had some categories confused. It would have been cool if we could have enlightened him further and cleared some of those up more. I wish I could have done more in that area. I’m sorry I couldn’t figure out how.

Then he asked his real question: “Do child molesters go to hell?” It was an academic question, and I forgot that no questions are really academic. I forgot that when someone stops by the pastor’s study or floats an academic question to you on Facebook, it’s almost never really about the hypothetical. It’s almost always about an actual lived story.

I gave him an academic answer. The child molester could go to heaven if he repented; nobody was beyond redemption. Boy, he really, really didn’t like that. Even when we clearly said that such a person should go to jail.

“Well, if a man molested my child and I killed them, would I go to hell?

It came out pretty quickly after that. His daughter had been molested, you see. And he had only found out about this two months previous. And he knew who had done it. And his rage was really raw. It was teeming over. Teeming over so much that he was talking to unsuspecting strangers about this horrifying thing, right there on the street.

Our hearts began to soften toward this man. No longer was he a scary, aggressive threat. He was a deeply hurting dad. He was so angry. He didn’t know what to do.

Have you ever been hurting so bad, filled with such rage and pain that it just spilled out all over the place? Have you ever been filled with such helpless anger that you didn’t know where to put the ache, the pain?

Even though I say constantly that we need to listen for the story behind the anger, I guess I forgot that when I felt a bit physically threatened. It was my husband who uncovered the real issue: The man wanted us to tell him it was ok to kill the abuser. Honestly, I was busy telling him I was so sorry for what he was going through and that his anger was understandable until I realized he literally wanted us to say it was ok to kill the abuser. My husband said, “You are wanting me to justify what you want to go do. And I won’t do that.”

I thought that was maybe a bit confrontational (and insensitive?), but to my surprise, the man backed off. This was a deeply broken situation. Nice words and platitudes were not going to meet him in his current rugged reality. “I can respect that,” he said, suddenly calming down. They shook hands. My husband asked his name and his daughter’s name and promised to pray for them.

Meanwhile, I had been talking with the young woman. She told me of her own experience of being sexually abused, that the authorities did nothing, and that she had forgiven her perpetrator. She talked about father figures and how the damage done by earthly fathers often damages our view of God the Father. She said that she believed a motherly image of God can help people who have suffered this damage to connect with God. She also seemed to hold an Eastern view of religion, believing all are “god.” While our views of religion had some very significant differences (especially on this last point), I could not help but admire the strength of this young woman, her diplomacy, and her instant ability to establish rapport with strangers and to see everyone around her from a view of mercy. At one point, right about the time my husband was shaking hands with the man, the young woman reached up and brushed away a piece of hair from my face, a tender act, as if we had known each other forever.

In that moment, there was no “us” and “them.” I was moved almost to tears and had a strong sense of being in a “thin place.”

I wrote about Father Greg Boyle recently. He said something that is continuing to impact me: “It’s about kinship, it’s about somehow seeking after compassion that stands in awe at what the poor have to carry, rather than stand in judgment at how they carry it.” I’ll be honest. I really, really stink at that sometimes. Sometimes I’m all judgment. Sometimes I’m scared and uncomfortable. But Someone is starting to open my eyes, little slit by little slit. I am starting to see the person and the tremendous suffering they have endured. I am starting to stand in awe of the strength that enables a person to move forward in the midst of such suffering.

The tired, homeless, older woman, pushing a walker up a steep hill at the Pike Place Market. One tiny, feeble, determined step at time. Formidable!

The homeless men and women who greeted one another on street corners, embraced one another, protected one another. Who helped each other not be alone.

The vendors selling copies of Real Change, a newspaper informing the public about homelessness. The vendors who have themselves been touched by homelessness and are working to proactively help their community.

The deaf woman wearing a dirty sweatshirt who had to beg in order to eat. Who lived on the street despite overwhelming difficulties. A survivor!

Sometimes I need to be reminded to see the person. Like my husband reminded me on the streets of Seattle, reminded me to find the story behind the anger. There are thin places to be found all over. We don’t know the story of the angry person, the dirty person, the homeless person. The story is the key to it all.

Lord, help me to see the person. Help me to hear their story. Soften my heart.

photo credit: transient on the grass via photopin (license)
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