Living in the Shadows

One of the things I notice most on the streets of Aberdeen or Hoquiam or Westport, is how often people look over their shoulders. For any sign of danger. For someone who has threatened them. And for police. 

The Fourth Amendment of the Constitution protects the rights of citizens from “unreasonable searches and seizures” of persons and property. In US legal code, a person can only be arrested if there is “probably cause” of current criminal activity or if a warrant has been issued for that person’s arrest or search of his or her property.

However, in towns across the country, courts and police have been heavily relying on the use of bench warrants. These are arrest warrants issued by a judge for failure to appear in court and, in some municipalities, failure to pay fines or otherwise comply with court orders. In many towns, including our own, the number of warrants issued is large enough to insure that a large number of people can be subject to arrest at any given time, without probable cause.

The number of warrants issued in this county is staggeringly high. Hoquiam, in their 2015 budget, mention about 1,200 municipal warrants issued in a town of about 8,500 people. That is one warrant for every 7 persons (though, it must be noted, that there can be multiple warrants issued for the same person). In Westport, the last time the website was updated in mid 2015, I counted 600 warrants issued and, counting out multiple warrants issued for a single person, roughly 400 people with outstanding warrants. This is in a town of about 2,000 people, meaning that just under ¼ of the population had municipal warrants out for their arrest. County courts, on last check, had about 3600 misdemeanor warrants and about 500 felony warrants.  

This warrant system most heavily targets people who are poor or homeless. Lack of transportation or lack of ways to keep time mean that court dates are missed. Court procedures are long, usually requiring the defendant to sign away their right to a speedy trial and the average public defender (because they are given such a heavy caseload) have very little time to spend on each case. The courts often mandate treatment that the defendant cannot afford, require regular check ins, and impose fees and fines that the defendant often cannot pay. These are some of the reasons a person would fail to appear.

A large number of original offenses—vagrancy, driving without insurance, trespassing, burglary (including breaking into an abandoned building to sleep), petty theft, etc are poverty related offenses in the first place. Drug use and possession is heavily penalized, often resulting in multiple felonies, with almost no access to treatment or a way out of poverty. Many people find it impossible to survive on the streets without some form of self-medication.

If a person wishes to “quash” their warrant (have it lifted), both Aberdeen and Hoquiam charge a $100 fee. In lieu of that, in Hoquiam, a person can show up to a court session and try and get the warrant quashed and a new court date set.

Otherwise, people remain technically “on the run from the law” until they are picked up by police. Obviously, jails do not have enough room to house the number of warrants out at any given time. Periodically, most cities and occasionally the sheriff’s department do “warrant sweeps,” where jails are opened up and large numbers of people with outstanding warrants are picked up.

This system creates an enormous amount of trauma and anxiety. People are always looking over their shoulder, always waiting to be arrested, and if police want to target an individual, they run their name to check on warrant status. This pushes a large number of people into the shadows, in constant fear of arrest.

God's Middle Finger

So, today is Easter. You know what I think of when I think of Easter?

I think Easter is God’s middle finger to all the forces in the world that want to destroy us.

Now, let me explain.

Jesus was a backwoods carpenter turned religious teacher who lived under occupation. That is, he lived under the Roman Empire, lived in deep poverty, and lived in a time where everyone was wondering if there was any way out.

And he preached a different kind of world, a different kingdom, he called it. He hung out with all the wrong sorts of people, according to the religious leaders—sex workers and hustlers, fisherfolk and farm workers, and all the wrong sorts. Beyond that, he was one of them; couch surfing during most of his ministry, sometimes homeless.

For three years, he built a movement, as hundreds and maybe thousands of poor people dreamed with him of a better world. Of a world where everyone had enough, where no one was hungry, where all were healed and whole. And, just one week before Easter, he marched with those people into the capital city of Jerusalem, announcing a new movement, announcing a new kingdom. He marched into the temple, and threw out the business owners who were making a profit off of people’s poverty, and declared a new kingdom.

And he was a threat. The religious leaders and the political leaders of the city realized that he was a threat to their power. He had masses of people behind him, so they waited until he was mostly alone, sleeping outside in a garden park. One of his closest friends betrayed him by narking to the temple cops where he was staying. He was arrested and his followers ran for their lives. He stood trial and was sentenced to be executed by crucifixion.

It seemed, at that moment, that the Empire had won. That Jesus’ movement was over. That the kingdom he preached about would never come. That the poor would never have enough, that the hungry would stay hungry. That despair was going to win.

And then we have this strange story of resurrection. And that resurrection ignites a huge movement. Jesus’ movement continues after all.

You want to know what I think? I think this story of the resurrection is God giving the middle finger to the empires who think that they can destroy us. Its God’s middle finger.

God says; “You think you can stop my kingdom? You think you can arrest and kill anyone you want? You think you can continue to keep people in grinding poverty without any hope? I don't think so.”

That’s why I like Easter. Because, here on the Harbor, we are surrounded by despair. There is never enough. Too many of us die way too soon. No jobs, not enough housing, the Harvards closing, an 18 year old who die too soon, a dying town. So many of our folks in and out of jail—for charging a cell phone in the park, on DOC forever and ever, and on and on the list goes. You can do everything right and still get screwed. You can do everything wrong and here you are, still screwed. And no one does anything about it. And we wonder if anything CAN be done about it.

So many of us mourn the deaths of our friends, our sons and daughters, our coworkers.

So, every once in awhile, I like to think of Easter as God’s middle finger to all of this needless death and suffering.

Some hope that another world is possible. Some hope that all those women and men who marched into Jerusalem that day, demanding a better kingdom, a better life were building power that could not be stopped. Some hope that death is not the end. Some hope that a new life is possible.

I always say I am more of a Good Friday person than an Easter person. I’ve had enough shit in my life, enough loss, enough pain, that I can appreciate what it means to have a God who suffers with me. Easter is always harder, because there have been too many times in my life when I have wanted something better so bad that it hurt, and yet nothing changed.

But, still, Easter reminds me to hope. Reminds me that all the pain is not the end. That new life comes, if only we fight for it, together.

Easter Vigil, Westport

I met a guy named Neaners a few months ago. That was his street name, anyway, and it seems to have stuck. He is from Burlington, in the Skagit Valley north of Seattle, where, like here, a lot of people are dealing with poverty, addiction, violence, and a lot of struggle. Neaners was a Latino gang leader and had spent 7 1/2 years in prison, much of it in solitary.

While he was there, he had a dream. He said he envisioned a “lil’ farm with flowers and pigs and animals ‘n shit” where “homies can kick back in their chanclas [sandals]” and the “unloved and wanted” could make meals, sing, plant vegetables and “be in a lovin’ kinda place.” He dreamed of a farm and a place where kids just coming out of jail and prison could come, could work and earn a living, and could find love and acceptance. When he got out, he has built that dream.

Together, kids who used to belong to white power gangs work alongside the sons and daughters of Latino farm workers. Former tweakers and gang members work together.

I was impressed by Neaners and I was even more impressed by his vision and his leadership. Here, in our School of Hard Knocks, we have been dreaming too, dreaming of ways to build a movement to end poverty here on the harbor. Dreaming of ways we can work together and build a better world.

 And, in the middle of our everyday grind, dreams of a better world can seem pretty far off, cant they?

That’s why we celebrate Easter.

Jesus was a backwoods carpenter turned religious teacher who lived under occupation. That is, he lived under the Roman Empire, lived in deep poverty, and lived in a time where everyone was wondering if there was any way out.

And he preached a different kind of world, a different kingdom, he called it. He hung out with all the people the religious people didn’t like—criminals, sex workers and hustlers, fisherfolk and farm workers. Beyond that, he was one of them; couch surfing during most of his ministry, sometimes homeless.

For three years, he built a movement, as hundreds and maybe thousands of poor people dreamed with him of a better world. Of a world where everyone had enough, where no one was hungry, where all were healed and whole. And, just one week before Easter, he marched with those people into the capital city of Jerusalem, announcing a new movement, announcing a new kingdom. He marched into the temple, and threw out the business owners who were making a profit off of people’s poverty, and declared a new kingdom.

And he was a threat. The religious leaders and the political leaders of the city realized that he was a threat to their power. He had masses of people behind him, so they waited until he was mostly alone, sleeping outside in a garden park. He was arrested and his followers ran for their lives. He stood trial and was sentenced to be executed by crucifixion.

It seemed, at that moment, that the Empire had won. That Jesus’ movement was over. That the kingdom he preached about would never come. That the poor would never have enough, that the hungry would stay hungry. That despair was going to win.

And then we have this strange story of resurrection. Jesus comes alive again. Its like God is saying; “Oh, no. You can’t end my kingdom that easily. You, Rome, are not going to win.”

And that resurrection ignites a huge movement. Jesus’ movement for the liberation of the poor continues after all.

That is why we celebrate Easter. That is why we sit here and remind ourselves that another world is possible. That is why we continue to dream and work for a better world. That is why Neaners started his garden and his farm.

I love to watch us dream. Dream of better housing as too many of our people are homeless. Dream of good and meaningful work. Dream of starting farms and gardens. Write letters to those who are behind bars. Dream of a better world for our young people. Dream of building a community that truly cares for each other. Lets keep dreaming. Lets keep working toward Easter, living Easter.

Alleluia, Christ is risen.

Cry Glory

Sermon: Transfiguration Sunday

I recently received a letter from a young woman in jail. In my role as a street pastor, I visit jails often. And I often write back and forth with people. This young woman writes to say that our little church building in Westport is one of the few places in her life where she has experienced any kind of acceptance. She writes that the harbor is a “dark and depressing place” but that finding some space where she feels welcome and accepted makes things just a little bit better.

As I work on the streets, I am always struck by just how young our community is. Here in Aberdeen, over half our population is under 35. So many of our young people are on the streets, couch surfing, and in and out of jail.  Grays Harbor county has, for example, the highest rate of incarcerating children for non-criminal offences in the nation.

And I think about the profound effect that has on generations of young people. For example, I work with many, many young mothers.  Most of the baptisms I perform are in hospital rooms, as moms hold their babies and give them names. Sometimes I only have a few minutes, as I borrow hospital water, and trace the sign of the cross on the baby’s forehead. Just a few minutes before CPS takes custody. I walk with moms who try desperately to try to find a place to stay, who try desperately to get clean for their baby, who try desperately to make a life and a family that they have never had. 

Some of them tell me what it is like to have been in and out of juvie and jail, what it is like to have been told by everyone in their life that they would never amount to anything.

I’m telling you these stories because our text opens this morning with Jesus talking about suffering. Jesus lives in an occupied land. He knows that, as he travels up to Jerusalem, that he is going to be arrested, jailed, and executed. It has happened to so many others.

My ministry also always begins with suffering. We had so many people die last year. The youngest was a 23 year old veteran, a young man who lived for a short time in your parking lot over this past summer. I just sat with a young woman this last week who had just got out of major surgery and was in terrible pain. They could only afford one night in a hotel and then she would be on the street. No time for recovery when you are homeless.  

Everywhere in the city, in this county, there is extensive suffering. It can feel unrelenting. It can feel unending. It can be so easy to give up hope.

I think it was that way for Jesus and his disciples too. Which is why I think we have the story of the Transfiguration.

Just after Jesus tells his disciples that he is expecting to face arrest and execution, he takes Peter and John up a mountain. And then the story honestly gets a little strange. I mean, what would you think if your friends come back from a hike and say that they just saw two dead people talking with your best friend?

But, strangeness aside, Peter and John witness an extraordinary moment. Jesus, standing in glory. And, with him, Moses and Elijah, two great figures from the Hebrew Bible.  

You know, it is easy to imagine that glory and triumph come from the top. 1000 years ago, many Christians seemed to believe glory came with tyrant kings marching on crusades. Even now, we sometimes equate glory with ornate cathedrals, or with big budgets, or with winning national elections.

But, in our text this morning, glory comes in the person of Jesus, a poor carpenter about to be executed by the state. And, standing with him, is a shepherd and rebel leader who led his people out of slavery and a courageous prophet who spent the better part of his life and ministry on the run from the law.

And, for just a moment, as Jesus prepares to set his face toward suffering and death, we see him revealed in glory.  Its only for a moment. The text tells us that, just as soon as the disciples see this, it is gone and they are alone again with Jesus. But, for a moment, they witness glory.  In a little corner of an occupied empire, a few poor fishermen witness glory.

Even so, every now and again, I get to witness glory.

And it comes in precious moments when I witness extraordinary courage.

When, against all odds, a courageous mom gets through treatment and fights like hell for her baby.

When a man in prison donates most of his earnings toward helping people get housing.

When people stand up for each other, when a young man-- with warrants out for his arrest  no less-- stands in front of the mayor and asks him to listen to the concerns of homeless people.

When people sacrifice for each other. When people, surrounded by so much despair, choose life.

When a few leaders of tent city decided that they wanted to create a community that protects each other and adamantly works to create space that is safe for vulnerable and disabled people.

When young women in jail, stripped of everything, in their early 20s, having spent more of their life locked up than out, still look out for each other.

When a homeless kid who slept in a shack last night and walked in shivering cooks lunch for his neighborhood and greets everyone with a giant smile on his face.

These are my heroes. 

Glory. A glory that comes, not in great power, not with great pomp, but glory that comes to us in the middle of great and profound suffering. Glory demonstrated in acts of unspeakable courage and love. Glory that reminds us of a poor carpenter, a rebel leader, and a hunted prophet.

My dear correspondent from jail was not wrong when she said that the harbor was a dark and depressing place for so many. But it is also, in the middle of that, home to profound courage. In the deep suffering that I witness, in all of the pain and the tragedy, I also am humbled and profoundly grateful to witness the glory.

At the end of that vision on that mountain so many years ago, the two disciples hear a voice from heaven saying; “This is my son, my beloved.” Perhaps that is the most glorious thing of all. Being reminded, because this is what Jesus came to remind us, that we are all beloved children of God. On the streets, in jails, under bridges, and in all the tragedy of life on the harbor, people cling to that. They fight for that. They fight for their dignity, their worth as children of God.

As I witness that, all I can do is stand in awe of great and profound courage.

And cry Glory!