A Road to Emmaeus

Otherness.  It’s not something that I deal with on a regular basis.  Most of the people with whom I associate share my socioeconomic status and belief system.  There is a kind of “middle class consensus” to which we subscribe; that is, play by society’s rules and you’ll be able to have most of the things that you want in life.  Associated with this consensus are general guidelines: respect and tolerate diversity, practice the golden rule (at least when it’s convenient to do so), avoid substance abuse, don’t do anything illegal, and, above all, don’t be dependent on others for your well-being.

Once a week, I visit a place where this consensus does not exist.  This place is Cup of Cool Water, a Christian ministry in downtown Spokane that offers a refuge for street kids.  I’ve been involved with Cup off and on for about 15 months, and I currently volunteer for an evening shift once a week.

Whenever I am around street kids, the radical cultural divide between us is immediately apparent.  The kids that come to Cup are frequently high on drugs, their language and mannerisms are obscene, and their values and belief systems run the gamut from the bizarre to the brazenly offensive.  Some are delusional, their minds so altered by substance abuse and mental illness that they can no longer distinguish fact from reality.  Others are habitual criminals who constantly transition in and out of jail.  Many are content to rely on welfare benefits in the form of Supplemental Security Income in order to survive (my middle-class prejudices are clearly starting to show).  Every time I am volunteering at Cup, I am confronted with the same question: how do I practice love towards those that are different than me?  How do I engage with them sincerely and with a true concern for their well-being?

Love requires sacrifice.  This is a lesson that I am only now beginning to learn as I approach my twenty-eighth year.  The sacrifice involves laying down one’s ego, one’s prejudices, and one’s comfort in order to carry the burden of another.  Love involves asking questions even when you fear what the response will be.  Love involves remembrance.  It is a recollection of a savior who ministered to tax collectors, prostitutes, beggars, and other untouchables.

Love, of course, is far easier to describe than practice.  At Cup, my middle-class sensibilities are under attack by the reality of street life.  My natural inclination is to avoid the kids (as I would do if I were walking downtown), while at other times I want to judge them.  As an example of the latter, there is a young man at Cup that I have known for almost a year now.  Let’s call him Matt (not his real name).  He is a self-described racist and Nazi sympathizer who admires Adolf Hitler, denies the Holocaust, opposes interracial marriage, and holds a bizarre view of racial descent in which white Europeans are the true children of biblical Israel.  I have acquired more and more knowledge of his views over the course of multiple conversations.  Despite his militant ideology, he is generally affable and courteous.  In addition, he is intellectually curious and possesses a remarkable ability to analyze and synthesize ideas.  He is always up for a good debate, and his eager defense of his beliefs is as admirable as it is disturbing.

For a long time, I have avoided deep conversations with Matt out of reluctance to hear his racist ideas.  Earlier this week, however, I overheard him discussing his theory of racial descent with another staff member and I soon joined the conversation.  I found myself listening patiently as he described his belief that the deported tribes of Israel eventually wound up in Central Asia and then migrated to Europe.  It is not out of love for him that I summoned this patience.  Rather, I was motivated, I think, by my desire to confront and defeat him on the battleground of ideas.  The crusader in me wishes to convince him of his ignorance and drag him into the light.  I have debated him before, but this time I didn’t have enough background knowledge of the subject to convincingly challenge him.

Instead, I just listened, and eventually, since we were on the topic, I found an opportunity to pose the question: “What is your view of Jesus?”  His replied swiftly and without hesitation: “He’s God in the flesh.”  I said that I agreed with this.  “What does Christ mean for you personally?” I asked.  A disturbed look came across his face, and after a long pause he said that he did not feel comfortable answering that question.  I said that this was perfectly okay, as it is a very sensitive subject.  “For me,” I said, “Christ’s sacrifice is the one thing that helps me love other people, as I cannot do it with my own strength.”  He considered this for a moment.  “I will say this,” he said, “I’ve been rebellious as hell, but God’s been with me the whole time.”  He then walked away, bringing the discussion to an end.

Later on in the evening, I asked him why he opposed interracial marriage.  He then showed me a Youtube video of a young Muhammed Ali opining his view that racial separation is natural and God-ordained.  I challenged this notion, explaining that the blending of cultures can be beautiful and that I myself am enriched by being able to draw upon Western and Asian influences.  He was clearly irritated by this, though I’m not sure if he was more upset with my beliefs or with the fact that I had just revealed myself as biracial.

Reflecting back on my encounters with Matt that evening, I cannot but question my motivations.  Why did I speak to him of Christ?  In that moment, was I motivated by love for Matt as one of God’s creatures?  I often see Christ as the model for love, but in talking to Matt I did not see myself as imitating Christ.  Still, I wanted him to know my views of Christ, partly out of self-aggrandizement, but also, at least in part, out of a true desire for his redemption.  As uncomfortable as it was, I knew that at some pointed I needed to share this with him.  Later, in our exchange regarding interracial marriage, my crusading spirit resumed and I once more felt consumed with the desire to defeat him.  These twin impulses are constantly at war when I engage with Matt: the desire to redeem and the desire to vanquish.

Matt doesn’t play by society’s rules.  In a world that is hostile to everything he believes, he is a steadfast non-conformist.  To him, the world is a corrupt, dark, and lonely place.  As long as he holds to his racist views, he will likely never join the middle-class consensus.  Is he therefore unworthy of being loved?  Loving him is uncomfortable, and I wonder at times if it’s even worth it.  I don’t know if he’ll ever change.  We cannot control such outcomes, of course.  I think all we can do is love to the degree that we are able, according to the grace that God gives us.  And in the end, I suppose our ability to love depends on the otherness we see in ourselves.  Rebellious, lacking in empathy, convinced of our own superiority – such is the condition in which Christ finds us, yet his love is magnified in spite of this, not diminished.  We are all others – you and I, Matt – staring up a mountainside so indomitable that Christ himself insists on carrying our burdens.