The Greatest of These…

An old friend – who probably best remembers me as the girl who sang at Mass on Sundays when we were kids – said of my Tent City involvement, “It’s good to see you found your faith again.”

Except that, well, I really haven’t. My relationship with this thing called “faith” is a lot more complex than just possessing it, losing it, and finding it like a set of keys.

The truth is, I still have many, many doubts and misgivings about religion as a whole. In my own experience, being bound by dogma was stifling. For me, belief in some intangible, invisible entity was fruitless and irrelevant. Relying on prayer in lieu of initiating change was insufficient. And most of all, my disdain for those who used God and the Bible as tools of oppression knew no bounds. Time and again, I encounter insecure, fearful, controlling, and bitter individuals who are so immersed in religion itself that they’ve lost their connection to humanity. It’s like they’re issuing a proclamation of expert swimming techniques and lifesaving skills when they’ve never even left the kiddie pool.

As for me…I consider myself a learned person, but I have far more questions than answers. I think I always will, and I’m at peace with that. I follow my own heart and my own conscience, but not blindly. Reason, logic, and foresight have become my closest allies, more so as I grow older.

I don’t identify as Christian - at least not in the mainstream religious sense, even though my spiritual self has been molded largely by the teachings of Jesus Christ. Yet, I do not identify as an atheist, because I still believe there are spiritual truths and mysteries that defy scientific explanation, and because I do not preclude the Divine from the answers.

I question so many things, up to and including the existence of God. Because to believe in something implies acceptance, and to accept something as truth without evidence has never served me all that well.

The Catholic faith in which I was raised played a huge role throughout most of my life. Since I was very young, I was always encouraged to use my passion and talents to serve God. At the age of eleven, I was a church cantor. I attended a Catholic university and got involved with the Retreat Team and volunteer projects - Boarder Babies and Prison Pen Pals, for example. After I graduated, a friend and former professor got me a part-time writing gig with The Catholic Advocate, the publication of the Newark Archdiocese. I got engaged to my high school sweetheart, relocated to Germany for several months, and took on writing assignments via the then-fledgling Internet - including the advice column for a Christian teen magazine.

Upon my return to the States, I spent four years as a Campus Minister, during which time I set out to complete my graduate studies in Pastoral Ministry. But during that time, I was facing many major life changes: marriage, pregnancy, another relocation (this time back to my hometown), and eventually a newborn daughter. Emotionally, I was ill-prepared and feeling overwhelmed, saddled with all responsibility and no freedom. When I was younger, my faith helped me through some difficult times – among them, my father’s death when I was eighteen, and my diagnosis of manic-depression when I was twenty-two. But now I felt like it was failing me. And what’s more, I felt like I was failing God. I resigned from my job, discontinued my studies, and eventually left the Church altogether.

And then came the day I was forced from my comfort zone, learning to adapt on the fly with little knowledge and few resources: when my marriage fell apart six years ago. But I did not pray about it. I took action. I summoned my own inner strength, relied on the love of my family and friends, and found a good therapist and medical care. I navigated my way through the maze of a new life phase and came out the other side a stronger, more resilient, and more stable person, and I’m proud of that. Too proud, in fact, to settle for relying on faith.

When I’m in Tent City, I’m not there just to assist with physical needs like food and clothing. I have only one thing to give, without condition or limit, and that is joy. The moments I get to share with them are a blessing. I love to listen to their stories, their jokes, and their insights – and there are so very many. We banter and we laugh together. I sing with them and to them. I hug them - a lot. I tell them and I show them how much I love them. They have enough struggle, hardship, and harshness in their lives. At least when I’m there, they are free to forget it all for a little while.

It is in serving the less fortunate, and finding connection and companionship in others who do the same, that my own spiritual purpose is fulfilled. It is in letting Love – the bottomless, unconditional love that some call God – flow from my soul to others that allows me to feel completely at peace.

So to refer to my friend’s statement, I’m not convinced I’ve found my faith, but I’ve definitely found the other pieces of St. Paul’s equation: hope and love. And those are more than enough for me.

Matters of the Heart

"Matters of the heart are the heart of the matter."

The words of yesterday still resonated with me - along with Pastor Marco's Aaronic blessing and the gentle strains of the acoustic guitar played by one of his congregants - as I sat near the wood stove in the chapel. I listened to the rain echo insistently against its blue tarp roof, now and then feeling a splash or rainwater on my face or leg. A pan of donated fried chicken, which Dave had set atop the stove, was warming and starting to crackle, and it smelled wonderful. A few residents lingered, either to enjoy their hot meal or just seeking a dry place to sit or socialize. We mused about what the weather would be like for the remainder of the week.

Lady Mieu Mieu, the little gray cat, curled up in the corner closest to the stove. Observing her, and feeling equally at home in those surroundings, I was awash in a deep sense of serenity.

The other emotions are worth writing about too, but serenity stands at the forefront - mostly to stand in the doorway and welcome the rest of the spectrum into my soul. Which, in less than forty-eight hours, has been profoundly and unequivocally altered.

To be continued...preferably after a night of sleep.

The Return of the Light

David said to [Goliath], “You come against me with sword and spear and javelin, but I come against you in the name of the Lord Almighty, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied."
(1 Samuel 17:45)

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. (2 Corinthians 4:16-18)

The longest night of the year was just under a week ago. Another Christmas has come and gone. And the promise of a new year lies just ahead.

Today I cling fast to hope, because I cannot help but feel a bit disillusioned. And, well...angry.

If you've seen National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, you may recall the scene where Clark Griswold receives a Jelly of the Month Club membership in lieu of his annual Christmas bonus. Naturally, he launches into a tirade of epic (and, shall we say, colorful) proportions against his boss.

We laugh because who among us hasn't felt dehumanized by those in power? Who hasn't wanted to wake certain folks from their "happy holiday slumber over there on Melody Lane with all the other rich people" and demand that they treat others with respect?

Residents didn't prepare sufficiently for the winter because were promised a year of free housing by Lakewood Township almost a year ago, and figured they would not be spending another winter outdoors. But Lakewood's promise never came to fruition, and winter has already begun. Chef Jeff has organized a gathering of volunteers tomorrow to assist with wood splitting, and I'm looking quite forward to it. Because while we fight for those who have no voice, we also need to draw on one another for strength in the face of frustration.

I for one am deeply frustrated - by the Township's lip service and band-aid solutions, by the Scrooge-like mentality of people in power, by the HUD official(s) who decided that Minister Steve's rights were not violated by the Township of Lakewood.

And in the face of paramount indifference and injustice, it is indeed a challenge to rely on faith. I'm thankful for people who serve as a reminder that we do not have to face that challenge alone.

Amazing Grace

OK...I was intending to write an anecdote of my recent life-altering experience, but this post turned into something else entirely.

Over the past three days, my respect and admiration for Minister Steve and his mission has grown – and continues to grow - in direct proportion to the depth of his compassion, the reach of his eloquence, the breadth of his burden, the strength of his character, and the scope of his ingenuity.

Because on a very, VERY small scale, I experienced first-hand what he goes through every single day. Perhaps an opportunity for me to serve the homeless on such a personal and challenging level will present itself again, and I will be better prepared. Or perhaps it won't, and I will contribute my time and talents in more familiar, comfortable ways. I am open to either.

When Ron and Rose, the young homeless couple, were evicted from Tent City, I caught up with them, got them something to eat, listened to their story, and vowed to do whatever I could to help. I reached out to friends for advice, such as one who over the years has opened her own home to the needy. With my small and crowded house and limited personal resources, I knew that would not be an option for me. So I contacted churches and private shelters - still, no room at the inn. Finally, after I realized I was running out of options, I called Minister Steve and sought his guidance. He expressed concern and made the precarious nature of my undertaking quite clear.

And I know why…primarily, because you assume the risks involved, up to and including your own safety. On many levels, you are in danger of getting too involved and/or being forced into a compromising position. Emotionally, those you take into your care can rend your heart, test your will, and challenge you in many ways. And there’s no way to really understand until you’ve made the choice. In principle, they are a bit like children - in the case of our homeless couple, they ARE young enough to be my children - only they are perfect strangers, and you really have no way of knowing what you're getting into. The way I see it, we are not firefighters, nor first responders, nor police officers, but we do whatever we have to do, take whatever risks are necessary, to save lives that are otherwise in danger. In fact, the great Nelson Mandela, who passed away only hours ago, once said, “Courage [is] not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear."

I also know how humbling it is, how unworthy you believe yourself to be when you're called to step up to the plate, and just when the hopelessness threatens to consume you, you cry out to your Higher Power. And you learn that if you are patient, things come together piece by piece.

Today, I know what it means to have to think on your feet, make spur-of-the-moment decisions, and rely not only on yourself and your own judgment, but the uplifting hands and words and wisdom of others. And overwhelming your gratitude when you realize how rare and precious those people - like Minister Steve, Chef Jeff, Cindy, Alex, Gina, Tricia, Denise, and quite a few others - actually are.

Today, I know the feeling of gratitude that comes with witnessing the best of humanity, and the exhaustion and frustration you experience when faced with the indifference. It's the sensation of staring out into a barren wasteland wondering if somewhere, you will find sustenance. Somehow, you do.

Today I fully realized the meaning of “the good grace of God” Minister Steve speaks of. Grace under fire – the fire of criticism, skepticism, ignorance, and apathy. Grace in the absence of justice. Grace that, despite our smallness and our humanity, almost transcends reason altogether. Grace that has to come from something much bigger than us as individuals. Grace that shapes you, moment by moment, into the luminous being you were always intended to be.

My experience calls to mind the story of the little boy on the beach, throwing washed-up starfish back into the ocean, A well-meaning man observes him doing this, but warns that he cannot possibly save them all. That he cannot possibly visit all the thousands of beaches with all its thousands of starfish and make a difference to all of them.

The boy responded by throwing another starfish back into the sea, and replying, “I made a difference to that one!”

And as I type this, I am overjoyed that, thanks to the combined efforts of caring individuals, our two little starfish are on their way HOME, to friends and family who are ready and willing to assist them.

Truly, truly amazing grace.

Thirty Days

It was a beautiful autumn Sunday, with a marvelous showing of donors ringing food, winter clothing, blankets, and other cold-weather necessities. I commented to Minister Steve that I was pleased to see so many people; he explained that this is indeed the norm for weekends in December.

Today, according to the Internet, and likely intended as a foil for Black Friday and Cyber Monday, is “Giving Tuesday.” http://community.givingtuesday.org/Page/FAQ

And then, I saw this little comic strip in my Facebook feed:

So, just something to think about: where will the poor and needy be once the Christmas tree is back in storage, the stockings are removed from the mantle, and the holiday spirit fades?

The answer: they will still be around.

Will you?

Let It Begin

The Qualified

The final community screening of Destiny's Bridge was worthy of celebration. The film was followed by several hours of musical entertainment, courtesy of Tent City residents, alumni, and supporters. I was honored to be among them.

The song I sang proclaimed that "I'll be the change that I want to see...let it begin with me..."

And so it does. With...me.

With the person who has never pitched a tent, never been camping, never slept outdoors save for the time I spent the night with my daughter on the sidewalks of New York City so she could see her favorite boy band.

With the stifled, spoiled, coddled, overprotected, angry child - and who grew up and avowed never to become a lazy, entitled, self-absorbed, angry adult.

With the person whose only salvation from her own moods was channeling them into creative vessels of music, the written word, anywhere they were safe from judgment or ridicule - only to find that when it comes to trusting people with your emotions, you're never truly safe...

Whose religious background ran a convoluted gamut of indoctrination, zealotry, and doubt. Whose family is more reminiscent of Jersey Shore or Real Housewives than Little House on the Prairie. Who lived abroad and adopted a new language and a new culture for a time, if only to supplant the roots to which I never could draw any real sustenance.

Who eats too much and moves too little, whose dreams are many but whose actions are few, and who spends too much time relying on technology and not enough relying on people.

Here I am reporting for duty, but feeling completely unqualified.

And that, my friends, is the beauty of it.

That some of us arrived at the wooded crossroads of destiny from one side, battered from the bumps in the road. Some arrive broken from slipping one too many times on the black ice of a well-paved, well-worn path. Some tumbled from the top of the high mountain, and others crawled from the valley of death toward the nearest light.

And we all ask the same question, "what can I do, whoever I am, wherever I'm from, with whatever I have?"

Ever hear the story of the water bearer with the cracked pot? It goes like this:

A waterbearer in India had two large pots, one hung on each end of a pole, which she carried across her neck.

One of the pots had a crack in it. While the other pot was perfect, and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the mistress's house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water to her master's house.

The perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream: "I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you."

Why?" asked the bearer. "What are you ashamed of?"

"I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your mistress's house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don't get full value from your efforts," the pot said.

The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in her compassion she said, "As we return to the mistress's house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path."

Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it some.

But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so again it apologized to the bearer for its failure.


The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side?

“That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you've watered them.

“For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my mistress's table. Without you being just the way you are, she would not have this beauty to grace her house."

Moral: Each of us has our own unique flaws. We're all cracked pots.

But it's the cracks and flaws we each have that make our lives together so very interesting and rewarding. We've just got to take each person for what they are, and look for the good in them.

And remember: Moses stuttered, Jacob was a cheater, Peter had a temper, David had an affair, Noah got drunk, Jonah ran away from God, Rahab was a prostitute, Paul was a murderer, Gideon was insecure, Isaiah preached naked, Miriam was gossiper, Martha was a nervous wreck, Mary was lazy, Thomas was a doubter, Sarah was impatient, Elijah was depressed, Zaccheus was short, Abraham was old and Lazarus was dead.

God does not call the qualified; He qualifies the called.

Let it begin.

Better Off?

I think the last time I went shopping on Black Friday was 1988. And it was not so much a legitimate shopping excursion as the warped curiosity of a bored teenager...as well as an exercise in creative road rage as my best friend at the time, who was the designated driver, sought a space in the mall parking lot.

Today, as on most Fridays following Thanksgiving, I simply relished the day off. This morning I slept in, stayed in my pajamas, and spent some time with my kids.

However, over in Tent City today, the term "Black Friday" takes on a different meaning: a resident named Mario Gerra - passed away.

I was unable to associate the name with a face, but many of my friends and personal acquaintances DID know Mario, and there is some measure of comfort knowing that he didn't die as just a nameless homeless person. He died as a member of a community. He was someone's neighbor, someone's friend. He will be remembered.

There's so much talk about "quality of life" as it applies to keeping a brain-dead, terminally ill, or severely disabled person alive. Often, people mistakenly equate the quality of one's life with the degree of personal attachment they have to the dying person. Or how intensely their absence will be felt by those who care for them.

It seems that the more emotionally attached we are to someone, they need to stay alive at all costs. If we feel apathy or hate towards a person, or even they inconvenience us or make us feel uncomfortable, suddenly it's perfectly justifiable to dehumanize them. The latter are the people who are "better off dead."

Indeed, the homeless are in danger of dying young, and dying of preventable conditions. They are more likely to carry a diagnosis of chronic physical and/or mental health issues as well as substance addiction or misuse. Our healthcare system makes it nearly impossible for the poor to receive preventative care, and the homeless (particularly those living in isolation on the streets) are not likely to have access to the services that might have saved them. They are also subject to malnutrition, isolation, and environmental conditions (i.e., hypothermia from sleeping outdoors) that more privileged members of society are not. Often, they are so caught up in trying to survive from one moment to the next that any thought of the future - including their future health - becomes irrelevant.

And the attitude is that, if someone is unable to see the inherent worth in their own life - if they don't actively seek help or elicit other folks to do so on their behalf, or if they've committed a serious crime - they deserve to die. The phrase "better off dead" is thrown around quite a bit in those situations.

As of right now, I do not know the circumstances surrounding Mario's death, nor can I say whether his homelessness was a contributing factor.

But his passing does serve as a reminder of our commonality. All human beings - rich, poor, healthy, sick, old, young - have the same basic needs. Physically, they need the right foods to nourish their bodies, clothing and shelter to protect them from the elements. But they also have emotional needs that include a sense of self-worth, belonging, human connection, and dignity. All human beings deserve to live - and eventually die - knowing someone cares for them. Knowing they are not alone.

Tzedakah

The word "tzedakah" is derived from the Hebrew root Tzadei-Dalet-Qof, meaning righteousness, justice or fairness. In Judaism, giving to the poor is not viewed as a generous, magnanimous act; it is simply an act of justice and righteousness, the performance of a duty, giving the poor their due.

--from the website Judaism 101 (http://www.jewfaq.org/tzedakah.htm)

A lot of people are quite angry about the situation in Lakewood - but they are blaming the WRONG PEOPLE. They overgeneralize and assume it is the whole of the Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) Jewish community persecuting the poor.

And nothing could be further from the truth. So, consider this a crash course in Lakewood politics, and the facts that set it apart from other towns in the state of New Jersey.

According to Wikipedia, The Lakewood Vaad (Council) "is a voluntary organization of leaders and businessmen, who represent a large amount of the Orthodox Jewish community in Lakewood, New Jersey in public policy issues. Lakewood has a large Orthodox Jewish population and is home to the largest Talmudic Academy in the United States, Beth Medrash Govoha. The community maintains a large and unified voting block. The Vaad endorses candidates for office, and communicates the needs of the community to elected officials. It may also occasionally be involved in specific intercommunity affairs. The Vaad claims that it is instrumental in the unity and voting power of the community, and maintains a level of influence within Lakewood politics, commensurate with the number or residents it represents."

Sounds benign enough, doesn't it? A council of representatives chosen to represent the people?

Not exactly, if you look at who they ACTUALLY represent - and it's certainly NOT the entire Orthodox community, judging by what many of them have to say about the Vaad. The actual document posted by the Lakewood View was removed from the site, but the 50+ comments (mostly from Orthodox Jews) are very telling: http://thelakewoodview.com/local-news/read-what-our-vaad-members-have-to-sign-in-order-to-become-a-member/

And here is how the organization that community members call the "BMG (Beth Medrash Govoha) Mafia" have used their power to subdue the folks that don't support their views or underhanded tactics - up to and including the removal of dissenters' children from school. Here's what they did to an Orthodox man who ran for office against an incumbent without asking their permission:

http://dusiznies.blogspot.com/2011/09/lakewood-yeshivas-using-jewsh-children.html

According to the blogger, "the strategy was to force HH to sign at the last second, with no choice other than to leave his girls without a school. HH, however, was a step ahead having his girls already registered in out-of-Lakewood schools. A 'shliach' [legal emissary] surprisingly showed up at his door with the paper for him to sign - the night before school started, without giving him permission to touch the paper. HH told the shliach that its not within his rights to sign without his wife's consent. The shliach relented. HH took the paper into his bedroom, copied it in his fax machine (hence the line in the paper), and then told the Shliach that he cannot sign the paper."

The Lakewood Scoop is their propaganda machine disguised as a community newspaper. They not only remove and block any comments with views that do not support their own, but also blacklist the IPs of anyone who dares to disagree with or question their intolerant, separatist disinformation.

If you've ever seen The Godfather II (required viewing for us Italians), you may recall the Black Hand. Basically the Lakewood Vaad is the Black Hand of the Haredi community. They might not be using guns, but they are bullies nonetheless.

Because of their influence over the voting block, no politician will challenge them. Because of their financial sway, local business owners are mum over corrupt business practices that include the exploitation of undocumented workers. Local law enforcement carry out their orders to harass the poor without question. And the people of their community have too much to lose if they speak their minds.

So even those who wish to engage in tzedakah - helping the poor receive justice - are prevented from doing so by a handful of bullies.

And of course ALL people with a thirst for justice - Jews, Christians, Muslims, Hindus, atheists, etc - are outraged. But I hope this will help people direct their outrage where it truly belongs.

And now a word from our sponsor…

Yesterday’s trip to Tent City brought to you by thermal underwear and cuddling kittens.
And giving a BIG shout-out to Steven Uccio, who has a GoFundMe site, “Heat for the Homeless,” set up for TC to defray the cost of the much-needed propane heaters.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled program.  

“We don’t want to make it easy…”

Yesterday, I attended a symposium at Georgian Court University that addressed resources for the homeless (and included a screening of Destiny’s Bridge). From vocational rehabilitation to holistic healing, it’s refreshing to know how many people are actively trying to help the poor. You can read more about it here:

http://www.app.com/article/20131114/NJNEWS/311140173/Homeless-advocates-join-forces-GCU-symposium

But man, just when I think Lakewood’s municipal leaders could not sink any lower, they somehow manage…Regarding the ordinances that basically outlaw homelessness by prohibiting sleeping, camping, using a blanket outdoors, etc., they stated, “We don’t want to make it easy for people to be homeless.”

As if homelessness was a conscious choice.

The ignorance, callousness, and self-righteousness they continue to exhibit angers and frustrates me to no end. Homelessness is NOT a choice. It is NOT some sort of disease. It’s a condition. A circumstance. And one for which the government itself is largely responsible.

Temperatures at night continue to drop, and the police force the residents to extinguish their wood fires or else face summonses or arrest (as if these people even HAVE money to pay a fine???) The local government might be taking away their only source of warmth, harassing them, and kicking them off the streets, but at the same time, they ARE making homelessness “easy.” By not having emergency shelter available to people who need it. By stealing public housing funds and allocated them to advance your own interests. By not ensuring that workers on the verge of homelessness are paid a living wage. By not allowing the poor of the community to have a voice in local government. You’ve created an economic environment in which those outside of your own special interest group cannot afford even the basic necessities.

And then, when your policies have stripped away every last bit of human dignity from these people and they are cast to the street, you pass laws that leave them with nowhere to sleep. And nowhere to turn.

This, friends, is what Minister Steve calls “discrimination by design.” Those in charge controlled by one of the state’s biggest voting blocs, and neither the government nor the people it represents want to be bothered with the disenfranchised members of society that Minister Steve is trying to help.

And although his ministry to the poor is saving Lakewood officials the trouble – along with saving taxpayers MILLIONS of dollars – they continue to persecute him.

THIS. NEEDS. TO. STOP. And so help me, I will fight for these people – MY friends, MY brothers and sisters - as much as I can, with whatever gifts and resources I have. If the pen is indeed mightier than the sword, then a computer with an Internet connection is surely an arsenal. Or at least I can hope it is.

Separation of "church" and state begins HERE and NOW. ACLU, here I come...

An Impractical Idealist

For the body does not consist of one member but of many. If the foot should say, “Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,” that would not make it any less a part of the body. And if the ear should say, “Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body,” that would not make it any less a part of the body. If the whole body were an eye, where would be the sense of hearing? If the whole body were an ear, where would be the sense of smell? But as it is, God arranged the members in the body, each one of them, as he chose. If all were a single member, where would the body be? As it is, there are many parts, yet one body.

-- 1 Corinthians 12:14-20

Many in our society believe that resources - up to and including food, shelter, clothing, and healthcare - are finite and therefore should only be allotted to those who deserve them. Specifically, it is the giver who gets to determine you are worthy, and if you are not, (s)he will not waste these valuable resources trying to help you. The only "right" people have is the right to provide for themselves. The problem is "you can't fix lazy or stupid, and they're the ones who cost money."

Conversely, I believe that NO ONE deserves to starve, sleep on the streets, freeze to death, or be treated like a piece of garbage. And by NO ONE, I mean NO ONE. Regardless of their criminal record, substance abuse, or lack of employment. Call me naive, but I guess I underestimated how radical of an idea this is. And I caught a lot of grief for it tonight.

Because apparently, when it comes to working towards a tangible solution for the homeless, recognizing the inherent worth in all human beings, regardless of their choices or circumstances, is too impractical. Moreover, it's a viewpoint indicative of someone who is "co-dependent in their relationships." That I cannot POSSIBLY be part of the solution with beliefs that are not rooted in realism.

In the course of this conversation, I was labeled a co-dependent, bleeding heart wannabe saint seeking to save the world and win a Nobel Peace Prize. While the person went on to laud himself for having a much more practical approach to the problem at hand - without, mind you, specifying what that approach actually is. 

I'm not sure I understand why was it necessary to tear down someone else whose opinions may differ, but whose intentions are the same. To paraphrase St. Paul, what purpose does it serve for the eye to tell the ear she's less important, or less effective? What does it matter what drives us, so long as we are using whatever gifts we can bring to the table for the greater good?

With Thanksgiving around the corner, can you imagine going to a feast and every single guest bringing turkey?

Of course, there's yours truly who shows up empty handed but writes a song about why we should all be thankful. Talk about impractical...

And I will stop there for now, because it seems the OTHER "TC" (tired and crabby) is creeping up on me. I'm sure things will look a bit less daunting after a night of sleep...

It Could Be You

My latest creative endeavor...and one that I truly hope will open eyes, change minds, and touch hearts. There is talk of putting together a compilation of music written and /or performed by the talented TC residents, alumni, and advocates. I would LOVE to see that happen. The notion of working with Nahdirah, Michael, Doug, and others is exciting.

In the course of recent developments - especially learning how Lakewood Township really DID sell the Tent City land to developers - I wish I had more to give, in terms of money, or a nice piece of land somewhere. But if this little song of mine can fill the recesses of the human heart - especially those who oppress and discriminate against the poor - let it be so. If God gave me the gift of creativity just so I can use it to help people in need, then I am overjoyed to use it. My Tent City friends have given ME so much - their friendship and love, inspiration, and a sense of purpose. Meeting people who are determined to be the change they wish to see in the world has been one of the most inspiring experiences of my life.

Let it begin with me. With ALL OF US.

The Essence of Community

While I was chatting with Jeff this afternoon, it occurred to me just how essential it is to a person's well-being to feel accepted by and connected to other human beings.

And even though neither Jeff nor I are residents of Tent City, we acknowledge the sense of community we feel there. It is beyond description, but I will attempt to put it into words...

First off, the people there are accepted - with open arms, and without judgment. And believe me when I tell you that if you're economically disadvantaged, acceptance is not easy to find. The sentiment among the privileged is at best, pity and at worst, contempt.

It's hard for anyone who has not experienced poverty, mental illness, or addiction first-hand to imagine what it's like to be in that situation. And for those who have not, it is most convenient to ignore the problem, blame it on the individual for bringing it on themselves or not being self-reliant enough. Ironically, it's the folks that label the homeless as "lazy" who are the laziest of all, as they themselves are too insulated and complacent to acknowledge the suffering of others.

Tent City offers not only a sense of community amid the otherwise-homeless, but among the concerned citizens who give their time, donations, and most importantly, their love to the residents. For volunteers and residents alike, there are people to greet, people to share with, people to lean on when things get difficult.

The sect in question claims to have the best interest of its own community in mind - and therein lies the problem. They recognize ONLY their community; in their eyes, the "infidels" of other races and creeds are outcasts. As they continue to pursue their separatist agenda, they ignore the OTHER communities sharing the town they occupy. In particular, they've yet to demonstrate any real compassion for the community made up of the downtrodden, the disenfranchised, and those who wish to alleviate their burden. Community is not for a select few. Respect is not a privilege. These things are basic human rights, and it's due time those in power open their eyes and live in accordance with the true spirit of their "host country:" Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

Secondly, the community offers safety. People genuinely look out for one another. Newcomers are welcomed by others who understand their circumstances, rather than a disinterested, detached, overworked clinical staff member. Residents can trust one another, knowing that unlawful actions that harm others will not be tolerated, and obey the rules. There's certainly some disagreement and bickering, as there is in any close-knit community, but the atmosphere of respect for one's neighbor - AND oneself - is fostered and encouraged at all times.

Thirdly, the community offers a sense of ownership. Those tarp-covered structures in Tent City are homes, just as much as a roof and four walls are home to their more privileged neighbors. Some have makeshift front yards that they adorn with holiday decorations and little picket fences; some have chairs on which they sit like porch swings and watch the sunset through the pine trees; some rescue and tend to animals as they would on a farm or in a sanctuary. Some strum a guitar and lead in a few choruses of a Beatles song. The people of Tent City make do with what they have at their disposal, learning to do without the many luxuries we take for granted; they live by their wits and their ingenuity. That they manage to survive in such harsh conditions is not shameful; rather, it is a reason for them to be proud. And that pride affords them the dignity that society has stripped away.

To tear apart this community, however impoverished, is no more acceptable than someone else trying to dissolve theirs. And worse, to subject the needy to the inhumane conditions of an institution like Dover Woods, demonstrates that they see the poor as less than human. That they are willingly and deliberately placing profit over people.

In the Torah, Proverbs 14:31 states that "Those who oppress the poor insult their Maker, but helping the poor honors Him." Refusing to acknowledge the humanity in others is an affront to the God who created them.

If you have any doubts, read that part again. Refusing to acknowledge the humanity in others is an affront to the God who created them.

And loving thy neighbor does NOT just refer to the neighbors who live in houses.

Progress, Blessings, and Fortitude

I wasn't planning on going to camp today until Jessica, who wanted to drop off some donation items, asked if I'd meet her there since it was her first visit. Naturally, I said yes.

So I arrived (a bit late on account of a traffic accident on Route 9) and helped her unload. Blankets, clothes, canned food, even candy. I showed her around the camp - or at least the parts I know reasonably well. She has twins, just like I do - but her twins are sixteen, both female, and she's got three others as well, including a one-year-old. And yet, she managed to make time to come to TC.

I told myself I'd limit my time there to an hour, then vote, go to the bank, pay my rent, and head home. But it seems like Someone had other plans for me.

Even though I saw Professor Dasgupta (aka Rumu) at the rally yesterday, today we were officially introduced. Long story short, Joe and I have volunteered to drive a number of TC residents to Social Services. The problem is, a number of people on her list don't live in TC anymore. Some don't have phone numbers. So, this could be a real challenge...

The bus has a leaky radiator, so Minister Steve was temporarily unable to assist the homeless in Red Square (the town center of Lakewood). Thus, he was on the premises pretty much the whole time we were. He's one of those people who never seems to stop moving; I am actually starting to wonder if the rumors about him never sleeping are true!

On one hand, it was unfortunate that Cindy lost one of the lenses of her reading glasses - but one the other, since I got to spend time with her on the excursion to get new ones, I considered myself lucky. She is truly an amazing person. She lives in South Carolina, but travels to New Jersey regularly just to spend time at the camp. And she's been doing so ever since Hurricane Sandy. She sleeps in a tent, like the other residents. She goes to the town square with Minister Steve, helping to unload the bus and feed the homeless people there. She helps with cleaning up the camp, from the grounds to the community bathroom.

These are the people that restore my faith in humanity, even when it feels like doubt and frustration have obliterated it.

Because yes, it SEEMS hopeful that Lakewood Township is trying to meet their November 28 deadline to place eligible TC residents in temporary housing. However, the location of said housing - namely Dover Woods - is questionable at best, and downright dangerous at worst. I was sick to my stomach after reading an article on the place (link posted below).

http://www.nj.com/news/index.ssf/2012/04/mental_health_official_poses_a.html

First off, for those familiar with the ADA, this facility blatantly violates the Olmstead Act. Secondly, its conditions are reminiscent of the institutions depicted in TV shows and horror movies. And thirdly, as a person living with mental illness (bipolar II, for those who do not know), the fact that this place even EXISTS is deplorable. For anyone, let alone a government official, to suggest that this is appropriate "alternative housing" for the homeless…Just, NO. I cannot imagine my friends - my brothers and sisters - losing the sense of community they feel living in Tent City, effectively institutionalized and accosted by the screams of patients, living in fear, sleepless, neglected by overburdened staff. They do not deserve to have their dignity stolen YET AGAIN by a system whose only real concern is the almighty dollar. This is COMPLETELY UNACCEPTABLE.

If ever there was a time I was compelled to pray, it's right now.

The Famine

There is a famine in the land today. There is a famine of justice, there's a famine of mercy, and a famine of compassion.

--Minister Steve Brigham, November 4, 2013

After a small turnout of around 50 supporters, some were left wondering if it was worth our time, if we were heard, or if we had any impact at all. It can be disheartening at times. There are moments you feel as though your voice, however powerful, is growing hoarse, and falling upon indifferent ears.

Yesterday, a friend I've known pretty much my whole life shared her experiences as a resident of Lakewood for over 30 years. How the town put their blinders on and allowed the special interest group to build on protected wetlands - home to endangered salamander species - close to her house. And how they granted a permit to build a boarding school on a standard residential lot next door to her, despite the requirement of 4 acres minimum for such an establishment. Another good friend, who lives in Jackson, is attending a town meeting because the same group is proposing a girls-only high school in his town with three variances - one of which AGAIN involves a school in a residential-only area.

Politicians, afraid to tamper with one of the state's largest voting blocs, cave in and do nothing.

One is left wondering, where does the moral famine end and justice begin?

It begins with us. One heart at a time. That's how I got involved - and by connecting with the passionate souls who are working for change, as well as the people in need, I am being transformed.

And the fire they nurture in my soul, perhaps I can spread to others. To my friends. To my children. To anyone who is ready to rise above this sense of fear and powerlessness and make this, as Minister Steve says, a nation we can be proud of.

Today it was fifty people. Next time, it could be a hundred. Because we will work to make it so.

If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention...

History, I believe, furnishes no example of a priest-ridden people maintaining a free civil government. This marks the lowest grade of ignorance of which their civil as well as religious leaders will always avail themselves for their own purposes.

-Thomas Jefferson to Alexander von Humboldt, Dec. 6, 1813.

Tomorrow, November 4, Tent City residents, volunteers, and supporters will gather in Lakewood's town square because, quite frankly, ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. 

Minister Steve founded Tent City back in 2005 because both the Township of Lakewood nor Ocean County officials have failed to provide shelter for the growing homeless population. For most of that time, the residents have led their lives of quiet self-reliance with minimal interference. But within the past year, developers have expressed interest in the land upon which Tent City was erected. And Lakewood Township has made it clear that they want the poor who inhabit that land kicked out for good.

Thus, the local government has grown increasingly aggressive in their efforts to harass and intimidate the residents of Tent City. Lakewood Township has recently passed an ordinance that outlaws homelessness on "public land." Police are now conducting frequent raids to evict people who have no other place to go. And that’s not even the worst of it.

Most Tent City residents had prepared to use wood-burning stoves to stay warm this winter. But as of October 20, wood-burning stoves and campfires were banned, and anyone using said fires to keep warm will be fined or arrested. The Mayor of Lakewood has agreed to a two-week stay on the ban, but with the winter fast approaching, we now desperately need more propane heaters and propane.

These anti-homelessness laws are unjust, unconstitutional, and an assault on human rights, we feel the powers that be need to be confronted and the harassment stopped. Especially in the face of unchecked corruption by special interest groups.

Because what makes Lakewood’s Tent City so controversial – besides the simple fact that it exists in the midst of sprawling upscale homes and unprecedented development – is just how corrupt that selfsame government actually is.

For example, it’s no secret that in the Township of Lakewood, in the State of New Jersey, public funds intended for low-income tenants are funneled into land development.

A lawsuit has charged that the Township of Lakewood “is guilty of falsely validating that fair housing practices are being assured to all communities.” The State of New Jersey, even when made aware of the Fair Housing violations perpetrated by Lakewood Township, has stood idly by. Meanwhile, the town continues to allow unchecked growth of a special-interest voting bloc that perpetuates the illegal, discriminatory housing practices. And these racist, separatist practices have eroded and all but decimated the African-American community that has been a backbone of Lakewood for decades.

Lakewood is also home to many undocumented aliens who build the housing for the Haredi community. Due to their illegal status, these workers are poorly paid. They rent single family homes from Haredi slumlords who take advantage of the workers’ undocumented status and charge exorbitant rents. In order to pay the rent, the undocumented workers invite others to share the cost of living. Tenants have even been found living in closets, attics, and basements – all documented in reports with pictures in Lakewood Township's files.

The Lakewood Code Enforcement Officers, in response to complaints from neighbors, do cite the landlords. But for a number of reasons, the complaints go unheeded. Many landlords claim as their mailing address every property they own. It makes it difficult and often impossible for Lakewood to find these property owners. Summonses issued by Lakewood Township are not much of a deterrent, as the slumlords don't always show up at their court dates.

The chronic nature of these unsolved problems causes neighbors to move out. When they do, the slumlords frequently buy their property to rent out – and the problem continues.

A key player in these Fair Housing violations is Rabbi Meir Hertz – a community leader who has abused his power and consistently circumvented the laws of his “host country" in various instances:

-After stealing a million dollars from a housing unit in Newark, Rabbi Meir Hertz pleaded guilty to filing a false federal income tax return in 2000. As part of a plea bargain with the U.S. Attorney, he was required to resign as executive director of the Lakewood Housing Authority. Nevertheless, Lakewood Township has a contract with the Lakewood Tenants Organization whose executive director is? The very same Rabbi Meir Hertz. And under the auspices of Rabbi Hertz, the LTO operates a Section 8 program.

-Legal documents suggest that when the secular town government threatened to give Rabbi Hertz a yearly contract (as required by law), Hertz appealed to a religious authoritative body to appeal to the Haredi to vote out those who would oppose him. He was able to staff the town council with his own supporters – which enabled him to continue favoring Yeshiva students into obtaining Section 8 housing.

In the face of these Fair Housing violations and in the absence of a homeless shelter, the people who might otherwise qualify for low-income housing are forced to live in tents. Or, in the event that the Haredi political machine gets its way, on the streets.

And it doesn’t stop there: The Lakewood Planning Board recently approved the construction of Tashbar, a private boys’ elementary school for over 600 K-8 students. According to a February 2012 article in the Lakewood Scoop, “the new 78,000 sq. ft. building will encompass Tashbar’s plans for expansion …along with student and faculty residential units.” Indeed – about 50 duplexes – the equivalent of dwellings in all. For an elementary school. And who has been named Tashbar’s Founder and Dean? None other than Rabbi Meir Hertz.

Regarding the 2010 Census, representatives of the Haredi community stated, “The greater the voting bloc, the more influence we have on all levels of government. And an estimated 70 percent of Lakewood residents receive some form of government assistance. The more people participate in the census, the more assistance the government will be able to direct toward our kehilla. Living in a medinah shel chesed, this is the way we can fulfill our obligation as a citizen of our host country while simultaneously helping ourselves.”

What I'd like to know is, since when does being a good citizen of one’s “host country” entail circumventing its laws and oppressing the most vulnerable of its people?

It's time to step up and stop the religious special interest groups from, in the words of Jefferson, "avail themselves for their own purposes."

G'night to all, and I will hopefully see you at tomorrow's demonstration.

Fortissimo

I've doing a lot of composing lately, and one of the songs I'm working on is called, "Live Outloud." And how I've been inspired to do just that.

I'm in the process of figuring out the music, but here are the lyrics:

Long ago I thought I lost my faith
Wandering alone through the dark I’d wait
Wondered if my life was just a big mistake
Until the day I shed my fear

Now that I’ve taken what you said to heart
Now your words have made a fire start
Of the sum and the whole I am just one part
But your love has brought me here

Because you make me wanna shine my light
Opened my eyes to what’s true and what’s right
By your side I’m gonna stand and fight
And rise above the crowd

The moment that you said my name
Was all it took to set my soul aflame
And this world will never be the same
I’m gonna live outloud
Live my life outloud
Live it right outloud

We are hand in hand, and face to face
Stepping from the night to a state of grace
Putting all my doubts in the proper place
Seizing every single day

Let it pave a road, let it part the sea
Let it break the walls, set the people free
Let it build a bridge to destiny

Love will always find a way

Yeah, you make me wanna shine my light
Opened my eyes to what’s true and what’s right
By your side I’m gonna stand and fight
And rise above the crowd

The moment that you said my name
Was all it took to set my soul aflame
And this world will never be the same
I’m gonna live outloud
Live my life outloud
Live it right outloud

Yesterday, my daughter accompanied me to TC and we spent some time with Michael and Marilyn. We played with Mama Ella and her five kittens - even contemplated adopting one. After another impromptu jam session with Michael, I resolved to give Julia a crash course in music history, starting with the Beatles.

Behind the walls of a makeshift cage was a small rooster. Knowing little about chicken behavior, I thought he was either missing a leg, or rehearsing for a Captain Morgan commercial.

Come to find out, he was just trying to look tough to another rooster, who'd approached the wire mesh and started antagonizing him. And although he was not missing a leg, he was indeed disabled: they rescued him after he'd nearly been pecked to death in the woods. The miracle bird's name? Fortissimo.

Which in musical terminology, means "in a very loud manner."

Which means, my latest composition is hereby dedicated to a sweet-tempered, blind rooster. :-)

"What kind of world do you want..."

Yesterday, Chef Jeff said that a common cause brings out the best in people. It certainly seems that way. Or, maybe common causes - especially those that are humanitarian in nature - are merely a uniting factor to bring good people together. I had the good fortune of meeting another one today: Arthur, the founder of another charity, Rebuild Seaside Heights. We only spoke briefly, but it seems he has a lot to offer Tent City in terms of his experience and approach. So I'm feeling optimistic...

Tonight, during a rare quiet moment, I pondered the happy ending in "Harry:" a wealthy philanthropist purchases several acres of farmland, including an old house. Generally, I don't play the lottery, but I have an urge to start. Christmas isn't far off, and a million dollar check made out to Destiny's Bridge would be the most epic stocking stuffer in history. Ah, well. I can dream.

And then, a song on the radio - performed by a group whose frontman was a notorious drug user - launched another thought entirely.

Without his adornments - his musical career, his fame, and his millions, he is simply a human being with an addiction. Countless people are affected by addiction, mental illness, relationship problems, and poor financial management. But it seems that the more someone has "contributed to society," the more forgiving others tend to be about their bad habits and shortcomings.

If a woman born into poverty turns to prostitution to make ends meet, she is criminalized and alienated and offered no protection against . But if her john is a public figure, he is forgiven. If an ordinary man beats his girlfriend to a bloody pulp, he will be arrested, perhaps reviled as an abuser. Meanwhile, Chris Brown and still has millions of fans all over the world - many of whom are female, and many of whom jump to his defense at any opportunity.

We - human beings made in the image and likeness of God - are measured by our fellow man in units of contribution. Material success is the yardstick against which our achievements are stacked, and through which we are rewarded with respect, power, and influence. We are born equal, but in the course of life, reduced to the sum of our accomplishments.

And immediately, the discrimination against the poor that Minister Steve mentioned in his sermon on Sunday became glaringly, alarmingly obvious.

How ironic that the ignorant souls who spew their vitriol about the homeless being "lazy" are probably the laziest of all. Too lazy, indeed, to educate themselves, leave their comfort zones, and get to know the people they judge so contemptuously. Too complacent, blind, and self-righteous to accept the difficult fact that not everyone is afforded the same privileges that they are.

I have three children - a thirteen-year-old daughter and twin sons who are turning nine years old tomorrow. As a parent, I've always felt one of the most important qualities I can encourage in them is empathy. So even at their young ages, they know that all human beings deserve respect. All of them. Even the people who make our lives difficult. And they know that even the most seemingly insignificant turn of events - whether through your own doing or a matter of circumstances - can define the course of one's life. Knowing that impoverished human beings are harassed, cast out, endangered, and threatened just around the corner from us is unthinkable to them. It saddens me that people with many more years of life experience than my children either do not know, or do not accept, that same principle - that all human beings deserve respect and dignity just because they're human, regardless of their path. 

My sons wonder why, with all the commercials that use sad songs to get people to feel bad for homeless pets, why there are no commercials with sad songs to help homeless people.

For now, I have no answer.

If Fire Had a Voice...

I wrote on a fellow volunteer’s Facebook page, “I have tremendous admiration for those who live their lives knowing that following your heart does not necessarily mean following the ‘rules.’ Especially when said rules are unjust, inhumane, and stacked against the most vulnerable members of society. If we want to see (and be) change in the world, it's essential to overcome the ‘me-first’ mentality. I am truly awed when I find people who have done so and whose strength of spirit inspires others to do the same.”

My third visit to Tent City – the first time I met Minister Steve Brigham in person – is what inspired that statement.

It was just this past Sunday, and upon arriving at the camp, I was met with a much different scene than I’d grown accustomed to over the days preceding. This time, the place was teeming with people, most of them volunteers. I later learned that the largest group was the Secular Franciscans from a parish in Colonia, and the other was a youth group from Marlboro.

They bustled about, preparing food and laying down plastic tablecloths. They carried multiple boxes and bags of donation items, from sleeping bags to toiletries. A painting of St. Francis stood on an unsteady easel not far from the chapel. Standing in the midst of them, carrying two jugs of water and three bags of apples, I immediately felt quite insignificant.

And in the midst of the crowd, a man caught my eye. Well over six feet tall, standing next to the little old ladies with rosaries around their necks, he was quite an imposing figure. He was dressed more formally than the others there, I recognized him at once – from the videos, the photographs taken at the production of “Harry,” and the news reports. Minister Steve himself.

Despite feeling so intimidated by that huge crowd, I introduced myself, and he greeted me with a broad smile and a handshake. He lifted the water jugs from my overloaded hands, and directed me to the food area, handing me a small crate in which I placed the apples.

“Do you need any help?” 

He glanced around. “We’ve got a lot of people here today, so I think we’re fine. Thank you.”

I nodded, but my heart dropped. I cursed my ill timing and took a seat on a bench near Alex’s trailer. And then I decided against it, reluctant to disturb him at work. I thought…now what?

My answer came in the form of a man who approached me and immediately struck up a conversation. I learned his name was Brian, and that he had a baby daughter in foster care. And that he missed her terribly. We talked for what seemed like forever. I saw the woman with the dreadlocks, had selected a brightly-colored nail polish from a box of donated toiletries. I finally learned her name: Vera.

Another man, wearing a black skull cap and wool-lined coat, sat down across from us. I learned that he’d just been arguing with his wife. Apparently, she’d been complaining that there wasn’t enough salt in the food, and he’d become frustrated trying to find her some. There was a look of genuine pain in his eyes as he described her struggles, and how much he just wanted her “to get her sh*t together.”

I smiled. “It’s so great that you’re there for her. That’s real love.”

He smiled back – and, although we’d only known each other for a grand total of fifteen minutes, told me I was a good friend.

He asked, “Have you seen Minister Steve?”

I pointed in the direction of the path by the chapel, where he’d walked past with the youth group. My newfound friend – Clarence – got up from his seat and asked if I wanted to walk with him. I obliged.

“One thing though,” he said. “You gotta be careful of the roosters. The big fluffy black ones.”

I laughed. “Attack chickens.”

“Oh yeah,” Clarence laughed with me. “I saw them chase a guy. They were pecking at him like crazy.”

“I’ve heard roosters can be really aggressive.”

Clarence stopped in his tracks. “Some can be aggressive. These are just plain dangerous.”

We reached a spot that was roped off. When I saw a wiry, white-haired man taking a seat at a piano, I knew where Minister Steve had led the youth group.

There was a cage just behind the rope, and above the roosters’ squawking, I heard a faint mew – and a furry paw emerged from between the metal bars. The leaves rustled, and from behind the cage stepped another familiar face from the news: Marilyn Berenzweig. She waved to us as she hurriedly placed a bowl of water in the cage.

“Mama has five kittens in there,” explained Marilyn. “Eating me out of house and home, this one.”

I nodded. “I can imagine!”

Clarence and I followed the gentle, if slightly out of tune, melody of Ave Maria. We crossed the path to where Minister Steve and the Marlboro teens stood listening to Michael Berenzweig – otherwise known as Tent City’s “Piano Man.”

And, being a musician myself, I was captivated. I applauded when he was finished, and lingered for a moment while Clarence continued to pursue his salt-seeking mission.

“Wow. You’re really good. That’s one of my favorite songs.”

He smiled. “Wish I knew all the words, but it really is beautiful. I love the chord changes in that one part.” He sat back down for a moment and played a segment of the song as the small crowd headed back toward the center of camp. Then he stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry. Don’t mean to keep you.”

“Please, don’t apologize. I could listen to you play all day.”

Eventually, I caught up with Clarence, and this time, his wife – who was in the middle of discarding her food and declaring it “nasty.” Clarence shrugged, salt shaker still in hand, then set it down on a nearby table and headed off to assist some volunteers with a carload or two of winter clothing.

A young woman with a camera phone in her hand tapped me on the shoulder. “Excuse me – would you mind taking a picture of us?”

I glanced at where the large group of Franciscans had assembled. “Sure.” I snapped a few photos. The sun was started to descend, and there was a noticeable chill in the air. With only my gray hoodie and a t-shirt, I started regretting not bringing an additional jacket. And I started thinking about how the police had come to camp just days before and declared a ban on wood stoves. It was cold enough on a late October afternoon; I grimaced at the idea of sleeping outdoors, in a tent, in the middle of January. As if on cue, a chill ran right up my spine.

I leaned against a tall stump. I heard a voice say my name and turned around. It was Michael.

“Hey there,” he called.

And thus began another conversation. I told him how I loved playing piano myself – secondly, of course, to singing and composing. And that I was in a band that played mostly classic rock. He balked when I mentioned Led Zeppelin and Aerosmith. “Can’t stand either one of them.”

“Aw, seriously? Aerosmith is one of my favorite.”

“All Steven Tyler does is scream.”

“But…he screams so well.”

I realized Michael was not only a talented musician who played both piano and guitar in addition to singing, but that he was also quite the musical history buff. He had encyclopedic knowledge of bands both groundbreaking and obscure. He told me he considered Procol Harem grossly underrated.

“You gotta listen to their stuff. ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ isn’t even close to their best work.”

Our conversation covered music of the 1960s and 70s, the Bible, and animal rights. He called the latter a misnomer. “We’re animals too,” he explained, “so really, when you think about it, animal rights also incorporates human rights. They’re one in the same.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Minister Steve hurry by. He tapped on the door of Alex’s trailer, but I couldn’t hear what he said.

We were interrupted by what sounded like a loud gong. I looked over my shoulder to see a man in a hooded jacket banging something against a presumably empty propane tank.

“Minister Steve’s giving a sermon,” Michael said.

The chapel was one of the few wooden-beamed structures at the site – heavy, translucent plastic for the walls, a large blue tarp for the roof. An organ sat unassumingly in the corner near the pulpit. The seats were worn, but colorful. I chose one in the fourth row, between Michael and a solemn-looking gentleman with downcast eyes.

Minister Steve entered the room, and we were silent. His very presence commanded attention, before he’d even said a word. So began his sermon, his powerful voice filling the recesses of the chapel, overshadowing the roosters’ crowing, the wind, the rustle of the dry leaves. He began with a resurrection-centered reading from Corinthians, then imparted a eulogy for a recently-deceased resident named Slavik, who was, I gathered, a friend of both Alex and the man to my right.

Then, his sermon veered in the direction of the injustices that had taken place over the past week – the police confiscating the residents’ sole source of warmth, the bulldozers, the harassment. How he was a twelfth-generation American, whose vision of a adopting a sustainable lifestyle and embracing simplicity could make our nation one we could be proud of.

And in those moments I, a former college campus minister/ theology student turned-non-believer, recalled the words of Christ’s disciples: “Did our hearts not burn within us?” (Luke 24:32) Indeed, the phrase “tongue of fire” took on quite a different meaning for me there in the chapel.

Had his voice been actual fire, the absence of wood stoves in the camp would definitely be a non-issue. I bowed my head and, for the first time in many years, said a prayer. For Michael, Alex, Clarence and his wife, and all those I now considered friends. And Slavik too, even though we'd never met.

The Way Into the Woods

The first time was at night. I was actually nervous about making my presence known. Mostly because I had no idea what I was getting into, what I would encounter, if in fact I should have just remained a self-proclaimed "armchair activist" before I got in too deep.

I knew I'd gone a bit too far when I approached the stadium. I made a K-turn and hoped there were no police cars around. I was relieved when I reached a red light, which gave me an opportunity to scan the side of the road while the car was stopped. Obscured by the darkness and tucked behind a bent yellow road sign, the dirt road was barely visible from the main strip.

Once I found it, my next priority was circumventing trees, garbage bins, some debris, and of course tents. Presumably with people fast asleep inside them.

It had not occurred to me that most of the residents, in the absence of electricity, would be retiring once the sun had set. I wasn't entirely prepared for how dark it was. Without my headlights, my first impression could have easily been a macabre one.

In a moment or two, the famed school bus was in sight, but all was eerily still, save for the crackle of my tires over a branch, a cricket's chatter.

So, my curiosity had been assuaged - but then it occurred to me that there was no way for me to hightail it out of there if I wanted to. Not without substantial collateral damage. The scattered trees, tents, and tables made turning around impossible. I sighed, turned off my headlights, and at once felt a mix of relief and trepidation when I thought I saw something move. Or someone. Yes, definitely a person. They were waving a flashlight around. Fear turned into relief. I didn't care who the person was; another human in the middle of all that darkness was a remarkably welcome sight.

"Hello?" I opened my car door and got out.

It was a woman - older, thin, copious hair on her upper lip. "Hey honey. Are you lost?"

"I'm okay." I offered her some bottled water, which she accepted without hesitation. I carried the bottles to her tent. It occurred to me at that moment that I'd never pitched a tent in my life. I'd never even been camping.

She said little, just followed me back to my car, a look of concern on her face as I climbed into the driver's seat. "I think I can make it out."

"OK, honey. Thank you. God bless you."

It took a bit of maneuvering, but I managed to turn the car around. I waved at the woman and crawled back down the dirt road, back to the glaring lights of the highway.

The second time, I had some company: namely, my friend Matt. We brought along some clothes to donate, and were greeted by a man - Dave - who explained that he helped take care of things when Minister Steve wasn't around. I noticed the bus I'd seen the night before was absent. Dave helped Matt sort the clothing - including two women's winter coats - on a nearby picnic table. A handful of residents appeared from out of the woods to examine the items. Most were snapped up within just a short time. A woman with dreadlocks smiled widely upon finding a small box of hair accessories at the bottom of a bag. I peered into the vacant chapel; I read the Scripture passage on a white board; I located Alex's office and introduced myself. I met several more of the residents as Matt and I took a walk down one of the paths. One, a frail-looking blonde woman, greeted us, and we discovered we shared the same name: Lisa. We laughed about it, and she hugged me.

Now that it was daylight, the first word that came to mind was "sprawling." We'd reach the end of one cluster of makeshift homes, and another would begin. We saw a dog or two, then more tents. Many were tidy; a few were a haphazard amalgam of loosely-hung awnings and various clutter. Most had tarps slung over them to guard against inclement weather. These tiny homes, according to stories I'd read, had survived Hurricane Sandy, whereas palatial homes in the town, sturdy-looking and surrounded by far fewer trees, had been decimated.

The other word that came to mind was "chickens." Roosters, hens, and chicks alike roamed the camp freely, crowing and scratching, occasionally perching themselves on a stump or low-hanging tree branch. Matt said it reminded him of his mother's former village back in the Philippines, which she took him to visit when he was a boy.

Aside from a short-lived squabble over someone allegedly hoarding items from the donation table, it was remarkably peaceful. People waving from plastic Adirondack chairs on makeshift porches, echoes of "hey" and "how ya doin'" greeting us every few feet. But we headed home after about an hour, since Matt was performing in a show that night and still had some errands to run beforehand.

My third visit...now THAT is the one I really need to write about. :-) That is, after a night of sleep...

Hitting Home...

In our country overall, the state of mental health care is abysmal. It absolutely sickens me that it is easier and cheaper for an American citizen to obtain a gun and do the unthinkable, than it is to seek treatment substance abuse or mental illness. It saddens and frustrates me that gun ownership is a "right," while healthcare is a "privilege."

When I was twenty-one, I saw a movie that made me flat-out ugly-cry. Not the sweet sort of ET-grade sentimental tears. I mean, full-on, entire-box-of-Kleenex, eyes-bloodshot-for-days bawling.

It was called "The Saint of Fort Washington," and it was a fictional account of homelessness in New York City. Let me tell you, it was nothing short of life-altering. Even longtime film critic Roger Ebert was moved by this film and its depiction of the homeless. If you haven't seen it, here's what he had to say:

"Walking next to some thick shrubbery recently, I saw a foot moving behind the bushes, and became aware of a warren of cardboard and old blankets in the shadows: There was a person living there. I felt embarrassed, as if I'd walked in on somebody using the toilet. And I understood something about how we respond to the homeless. We have a tendency to look away, to not see these people huddled in doorways or holding crude signs on which they have written their life's tragedy. They embarrass us, standing before us naked, having been stripped of home, employment, family and proper costume. They are simply unadorned human beings, without social titles and roles, and we have no script for dealing with them. The coining of the word 'homeless' has been useful, since we are not comfortable in this society with words like beggar; at least a name has been given to their condition. Yet homelessness is the last in line of their problems, coming in many cases after mental illness, addiction, or the simple inability to find work. Since seeing this movie, I've found myself letting those guys at intersections wash my windshield. Big deal: I've changed exactly nothing about the underlying situation. But I feel like I know who they are."

In 1995, at the age of 22, I was diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder. Nearly twenty years later, I've been successful in treating it - taking my meds, attending counseling, and surrounding myself with loving and supportive people. I thank God that I am so fortunate. Because I am well aware that the overwhelming majority of homeless people struggle with some form of mental illness. Truth be told, if I ever lost my medical insurance, my prescription plan, I could destabilize. Which would impede my ability to earn a living. Which would in turn devastate my finances, and my family life, perhaps leaving me in the same predicament as the people Roger Ebert so accurately described.

Over the years, I'd heard stories about Tent City. I knew it existed; I also found it heartbreaking to watch politicians, police and the township of Lakewood criminalizing the plight of its most vulnerable citizens - the jobless, the addicted, the marginalized, the mentally ill. But I didn't get involved until recently, thanks to the impact of art. My significant other, Matt, had a role in "Harry," an original play about Tent City that debuted at a local community theater. Two months later, I paid TC a visit. And it was life altering. 

That, dear friends, is where my story begins...

I Have Heard...

Not a soul would feel the winter

If his words could light a fire
Idle hands and hearts are lifted
To the task that they inspire

And if you care to listen
As the voice of justice roars
Just like thunder from the heavens
Every heart its song implores

My own soul is moved and shaken
From complacency, I run
Though my hands are two, not many
And my voice is only one

But my ears are at the ready
For each story and each word
I will speak for the forgotten
And will let their voice be heard.

There is hope and there is freedom
Where they stand at mercy's door
With a vision of tomorrow
Where oppression is no more

I have heard, and that voice echoes
What is right, and what is true
I have heard, and I will listen
But the question is...will you?