I always wondered what happened to troubled teens when they can no longer live at home. Monday I found out.
One of our church’s many local missions helps with a homeless ministry in downtown Columbia. Several local congregations go in together to provide meals once a week for the many women and men who live on the streets. Last Monday night was our congregation’s turn so my wife and I went to see things firsthand.
Homelessness doesn’t discriminate
Church of the Apostles is in a prime location for this ministry. The bus station is a few blocks away and several shelters are nearby. A group from our church had brought baked spaghetti and salad and we met about 5:00 to make individual take-out portions. At 5:30 I walked to the serving area outside and found a crowd of over one hundred people of every description gathered for the meal. They were young and old, black and white, male and female. Homelessness doesn’t discriminate. I blogged earlier on the particular problem of homelessness among veterans.
Just before I offered the blessing, though, I was approached by a young man who changed the whole evening for me. What had started out as an outreach to the poor morphed into something much more—an encounter with our broken world and the limits of what churches can do about it.
The young man made his way from the crowd to where I stood getting ready to pray. “Pastor Mike?” His question was uncertain.
He looked vaguely familiar. Medium-length dark hair. Short and alert. Friendly.
“Help me with your name,” I said. This is my response to people when I can’t recall who they are, something that seems to be happening more lately.
“Jimmy ____” he said. Then I remembered. He had been a teen-ager in our church five years earlier and was the adopted son of an older couple. He was one of those kids who can’t find their place at home, at school, in church.
When Jimmy reached his teen-age years he began to act out and his home descended into the special kind of hell that only families who’ve been through it can understand. Nights when he didn’t come home. Substance abuse. Thefts of personal property. Unrelenting conflict. Disobedience. Anger. Loss of control.
When families reach their breaking point
I recalled many conversations when I and other ministers on staff tried to help. But neither we nor the numerous counselors the parents sought out could improve the situation. When the family reached the breaking point the parents decided Jimmy couldn’t live in their home anymore. They put his meager belongings on the street and told him not to come back.
I’m not judging them. I’m not blaming the professional counselors who failed. And I’m not criticizing the ministers on our church staff. Everybody did the best they could. It’s just that this side of heaven life doesn’t always work out the way we think it should and sometimes the awful decision is the only decision.
Jimmy left home and lived for a while in a series of group homes but couldn’t stick to their rules. Finally, he disappeared into the underground of lost souls we call the homeless. The parents moved away and I haven’t heard from them in years.
I had no idea what happened to Jimmy until Monday night when he stood smiling in front of me.
So many emotions and thoughts ran through my head that I didn’t know where to start. Grief over my inability as a pastor to lead Jimmy’s family to a better resolution than throwing their teen-aged son out on the street. The pain of ministering to young people so deeply troubled that they defy the ministries of any church. The challenges of staying in touch with hurting people once they join the ranks of the homeless–a vast group that defies definition and in many ways help.
“Tell me what you’re doing now.” I stopped my ruminations and looked at him.
He explained how he had some sort of apartment and lived off a small Social Security disability check. He proudly pointed to a moped parked just outside the church yard as his transportation.
“I’m doing ok.” He looked great, honestly. Better in fact than the last time I had seen him, when he couldn’t speak coherently or look me in the eye when we talked. Now he seemed more mature. More focused. Maybe living on the street has that effect on some folks.
Serving the homeless in Jesus’ name
I’m a pastor, and my heart is for hurting people wherever they are. I think that’s how our churches feel, too. But Monday night Jimmy added a deeper, more genuine dimension to my idea of ministry: Life is hard; decisions have consequences; and somewhere in the chaos there are people serving the homeless in Jesus’ name. Sometimes that’s all we can do.