The Immaterial Boy

I gave a ride to Madonna's brother today. His name is Anthony. He wears fashionable eyeglasses and an expensive pair of boots, but his coat is ragged and he smells of stale body and smoke. He spent the past several nights at the church I pastor. He is homeless.

Anthony, Craig and T.J. could not crowd onto the morning bus. They are our guests through the Safe Harbor program, in which area churches house and feed the homeless. The harsh winter has swelled their numbers. One bus cannot get them all into town. The driver failed to come back for these men. And so they waited. Craig sat in a chair with his head between his knees. T.J., a bearded man with piercing eyes, shuffled around in a wide circle. Anthony and I talked a little. He has obvious intelligence and a deep, warm voice. When sober, he occupies an important position within the homeless community. Ron, one of our church members and a staunch Safe Harbor volunteer, tells of having watched Anthony break up a nasty fight between three homeless brothers. Reporters often seek his opinion on issues like whether our town should convert the former Boy's and Girl's Club building into a permanent homeless shelter.

When the bus did not come back, I invited the men into my truck. We left the parking lot in total silence. Thinking how awkward another ten minutes of that might be, I asked whether they came from around here. Craig said yes. T.J. said nothing. Anthony said, “Actually, I come from downstate originally.” Craig proceeded to carry the conversation on solo. He called himself something of a local historian. He told me his mom had dated a Mr. Murdick in high school. He gave me an expectant look. Then he added, “You know, Mr. Five Dollar Piece of Fudge Murdick.” (We call tourists “Fudgies” up here because many of them buy fudge at one of several locally-owned shops—including Murdick's.) Craig went on (and on) to claim he was related to a whole string of rich local people, naming an attorney; the guy with the mansion on West Bay who made his money selling dial-up modems back in the day; and Perry Hanna, one of Traverse City's founders.

I dropped Anthony off first, at a grocery store. I drove the still-talking Craig and T.J. on to another church where they serve breakfast every weekday morning. When I let them out T.J. came to my window and thanked me.

Earlier this morning a woman about my age came to the church. Kari, her thirty-something daughter, is a homeless alcoholic. Last night, the first in the twenties (a heat wave!) for weeks, she chose not to come inside. Instead, she ingested enough to drive her blood/alcohol count to .5. The legal limit is .08. Somebody called 911, they got her to the ER, and now they await a bed in a regional detox center. Her mom came to get her medications and the meager belongings that fit into her storage tub. All the Safe Harbor guests have a tub. We looked up her number but could not find it. It turns out her daughter no longer had anything to store.

Jesus said, “Whatever you do for the least of these, you do it as if you were doing it to me.” This lessens the sadness I feel when I think how far Kari and Anthony have fallen. But it lessens it only a little. May God have mercy on them, each and every one.