I Pray I Did Them Right

When my friend "Chief" died in late 2020, I mourned another who left this world too soon, looked up to the heavens, and cried, "I pray I did him right" and "how can I do better next time?"

Whenever I find out that another person experiencing homelessness has died, I often find myself reflecting, "I pray I did them right" and "how can I learn from this and do better next time?"

They're taken too young. It ends so early, so quickly, like a vapor. Could their deaths have been prevented? I weep over the injustice of a corrupt system that elevates the wealthy, promotes the privileged, while blatantly neglecting the poor and marginalized. Deep-seated discrimination and racism sift through this nation like beasts who arrogantly strut around, knowing they're far too big and powerful to be conquered. The poor, the weak, the fragile, are nothing but collateral damage to these devouring beasts who ensure the ongoing reign of supremacy, inequality, and oppression.

When another person experiencing homelessness dies, there are few who care, there are few who shed tears, there are few who even notice. My friends on the streets and in shelters are plagued by the curse of homelessness, which ensures they are highly visible for judgment and condemnation, yet starkly invisible for the embraces of forgiveness and compassion! 

When they fade into the night, I question myself, wondering if I could have done more. Could I have provided more socks, gone on more marches, dedicated more time, lent more of a listening ear? 

As they fade into the night, I question where the church could have stepped up. Could we have been more about the physical realities and our actions than just our words and buildings? Could we have been more about the poor and oppressed than those who sing well, tithe well, promote well, and look well? 

As they fade into the black, I see how dark and corrupt the world is, questioning how the Kingdom of Heaven is shining its liberating light that only the cross and resurrection can bring. As my friends continually fade into the eternal arms of Jesus, I question how to bring God's true love and justice into our unjust and exclusionary society. How can we preach the gospel if we're unwilling to live out the Good News with our lives?

Johnny, who I always knew as Chief, was someone I met when I first came to Chicago. I am honored to have joined him on his journey and walked through many valleys and hills with him for a couple decades. The path he had to navigate was one of the most difficult I've ever witnessed, but Chief was a remarkable survivor. Despite the relentless obstacles that kept blocking his path, he managed to climb over them with an unrelenting hope and faith - while continuing to joke and smile. His resilience and life was remarkable and cause me to question my own grumblings and despair.

...but Chief's story reflects what so many go through around us. His life tells of an Uptown tragedy, it reveals the racism Native Americans face daily in this nation, with his continual struggle of rotating in and out of homelessness for over 4 decades, the injustice of mass incarceration, a school system that failed him, gentrifying police-calling neo-liberal bullies, and how he was a victim of white supremacy.

One day he lifted up his shirt and revealed a horrific scar that went from his belly to his chest. He told me how was sleeping in an alley off Leland when someone snuck up on him and sliced him open with a machete for no reason. The horror didn't stop there, he stumbled half a mile to the local hospital in agonizing pain, holding his guts in and together, leaving a trail of blood. No one helped him. No-one stopped their cars. People complained of the blood. They stared. They turned their backs. They ran. How he survived this callous hate crime and over 4 decades of frigid Chicago winters, God only knows! 

...but Chief's story isn't just a bitter tragedy, it, more importantly, reveals the loving compassion of those who surrounded him. All our stories speak of hate and love, oppression and liberation, retribution and restoration. Even though he suffered so much, even though he was a victim of systemic racism, neglect, and blatant hate, I'd be wrong to ignore the overflowing bounty of love, forgiveness, and mercy Johnny received from so many. 

When people come together and operate in the Name of loving compassion for their neighbors - especially the most fragile and marginalized - this gives me undeniable hope! I learned early on not to rely on politicians and the powerful, but those who surround me with similar cries for justice, similar missions, and the same love for the oppressed. Movement happens and hope rises when we "fight the power" through what I would call Kingdom Love - people coming together, united, following and living out the loving example of Jesus together, challenging and resisting the "powers-that-be", taking away their power and giving it to the people. 

Johnny experienced that love. He found it from those who refused to ignore and berate him. He found it by embracing those who stood with and for him. Just as he received much generosity, Johnny always gave beyond measure. Through this bond of community, I remember the day, after decades of homelessness, we were able to help Johnny get off the streets and into his own crib. This support came about through people coming together and refusing to let injustice and the bullies win. It wasn't the "powers-that-be" that gave him hope, but a network of like-minded warriors fighting for and with him, from those who slept in tents with him, to activists that protested for him, to outreach workers who helped him get his documents, to advocates that cried for others to notice him, to compassionate godly men like Father Pawell who knew him as a child, never gave up on him, and reminded him that he was precious and loved by God.   

Johnny, a lot of people did you right, you did us right, I pray I did you right! Rest In power, rest in peace, rest in paradise my friend - you are missed and loved!