Nearly 50 million Americans deal with food insecurity (defined by the consistent lack of access to food that is conducive to a healthy life) every day. Before last Friday, I had never seen the inside of a food bank (or outside, for that matter—Washington suburbs do an excellent job of masking signs of economic crisis). It is not comfortable to admit this. For me (if not for most), it is easier to pretend poverty does not exist in the fruitful world I want to create for myself. It seems an inexhaustible problem: commit to aiding one person’s need, and then release the floodgate of reality–the millions more imploring assistance and advocacy. And I just want to read my book in peace…

Eleis (Haven kitchen manager/staff person/generally wonderful person) and I arrived at the Blue Ridge Area Food Bank just prior to a shipment of fresh produce, crates of nectarines, grapefruits, and apples unloaded from eighteen-wheelers. Eleis visits the food bank to shop for food staples not often donated, like fresh produce, that would otherwise have to be purchased using the Haven’s kitchen budget. While there are some surprising finds in the food bins—I didn’t expect to find three hefty packages of gluten-free lemon bar mix—most of the non-perishable items are back-of-the-shelf variety: dented, ripped, discounted, almost-expired.

The Blue Ridge Area Food Bank provides sustenance for much of central Virginia, feeding children, men and women among the working poor, homeless, or otherwise in-need populations. We are very lucky in Charlottesville to have the distribution center within our city, as most agencies or individuals collecting food must drive a not-insubstantial distance to pick up a donation. The food bank is housed in a warehouse-type building, with practical concrete floors, fluorescent lighting, and food displayed in deep bins that remind me of the $3 DVD piles at Wal-Mart. There are designated bins for rice and pasta, canned beans, canned vegetables, and baking supplies.

Here, thousands of Virginians are given food on the brink of extinction from the middle-class world, offered to the needy one step before heading to a landfill. The Blue Ridge Food Bank is a great organization, and its affiliates persevere every day to provide the best quality food for the people they serve. Nevertheless, this is the food that is easy to donate. This is the food that no original possessor will miss.

The radical hospitality of The Haven (one of my favorite one-liners from my mentor, Stephen Hitchcock) may need a radical theology. The famous lines from Matthew 25:35-40 might not be enough.[i] This is a universal Bible verse, one that every mission trip and Christian volunteer cites as the inspiration for doing charity. It is a phenomenally important selection, imploring followers to stay attentive to the needs of all humankind. This chapter follows the prophecy of the destruction of the Temple, as Matthew 24 ends with a warning to be on your best behavior every day, as you never know when judgment may come.

I am no biblical scholar, but I am more inclined to see The Haven’s work through the lens of Douglas John Hall, a 20^th century Canadian theologian who presents a “theology of the cross” that “faces human weakness and limitation head-on.”[ii] According to Kelly Johnson, what is significant about Hall’s “theology of the cross” is that it “pronounces an unresolved ‘beggarliness’ on all creation, and identifies Christian faith with the recognition of this truth” (163). In an America where it is easier for the majority to forget about food banks, Hall reminds us that we are all beggars; that is, we are all profoundly reliant on one another for sustenance. We desperately need to be held by those we love. One person cannot support him or herself in isolation. Hall’s writings acknowledge that there is no distinction between the one on the lookout for Christ in the guise of a beggar and the beggar himself. There is no beggar group or lookout group; we are all members of the same body and cannot be isolated from one another.

The total rejection of isolation within The Haven’s low-barrier philosophy may be considered a radical theology. It challenges the notion of the other, of the invisible, undesirable blots of poverty among comfortable neighborhoods.  Part of the volunteer orientation includes a round table discussion on how being at The Haven might put a new participant out of her comfort zone. While it may not be a theological jump for some volunteers (after all, Matthew 25:35-40 is justification enough for most), committing to The Haven is a social and classist rejection of poverty’s veil. It certainly was for me. I am grateful for the startling (and much needed) perspective The Haven has provided within my daily life as a University of Virginia student.Taking the 6:40am bus downtown to The Haven launched me into the tangible layer of Charlottesville, a real world of early morning work shifts and construction uniforms. To accept The Haven is to accept that Charlottesville is not encapsulated by the privilege of the university biome. Kelly Johnson writes, “[The non-poor] can find the courage to give up their security, if they will, that Christianity is a story about a person, not a set of doctrines, and that the Person possesses the churches, rather than they him” (165). In that way, we can work towards exceptional humility and openness to all women and men as fellow beggars in need of one another.

Maybe Americans try to make poverty invisible out of fear. Perhaps we fear the poor because we fear drowning in the entanglements we believe momentary generosity will produce. Perhaps we fear beggars because we fear to be like them; we fear to acknowledge that the economic world which has made us not-them will make us them. But we are all part of the same impossibly knit family. As Alphonse Lugan wrote, “Man in the gospel is part of an organism whose members tend to the same end by different means.”[iii] All men and women are a reflection of a unified self, yet I still do not know where to find a food bank in my hometown. “Fear of poverty” is an over-simplification, of course. Understanding the psychological implications of belonging within a class system is far beyond the scope of my summer. At this point, I can only hope to keep learning with open eyes and ears and a face turned towards the theology of the cross.

The urban, modern life never pauses to catch its breath. We are pushed along by traffic, by deadlines, by the demands of our relationships. Amongst the stressors of today’s world, it is essential to reserve time for relaxation. When picturing this delicious escape from reality, we may think of lying on a tropical beach with a new book, or falling asleep in an armchair by the fire. But what if letting your awareness drop for only an hour meant the imminent danger of hypothermia or assault? What if you had nowhere to rest?

The Haven is a low-barrier shelter, meaning anyone can walk in the door and access services. In traditional homeless shelters, there are metal detectors at the door and guests must often pass sobriety tests to be seen by service providers. The Haven is an exceptional place where literally anyone in need can walk off the street and find a place of rest.

For many living outside or in precarious homes, waking rested and calm is simply not possible. Existence is marked with anxiety: Where will I sleep tonight? Will I be safe from violence and the elements? How am I going to eat? Where are my children? This hyper-aware state reminds me of taking care of a newborn; there are some many basic needs to attend to that complex issues requiring great energy and resilience, like job-hunting, become secondary.

By opening its doors to anyone and everyone, The Haven offers a safe place for rejuvenation. Inside its walls, it is safe for an unaccompanied woman to fall asleep. With centralized heating and air, the body can relax into a natural temperature and rhythm. Basic safety and comfort provided, guests are able to be still and quiet, awash in relief.

This approach is not without controversy. Low barrier shelters are criticized for their lack of enforced security, or for their indiscriminate application of care. Who decides who is “worthy” of care or help? This is a tricky question–or perhaps it is profoundly simple. The Haven’s philosophy is to meet people where they are, and not dictate what the “next step” should be in regaining stability. It seems that there are more barriers than open doorways to people seeking assistance, whether it be for affordable housing or substance abuse. Those individuals most at risk are often the ones refused by other shelters because of their current inability to adhere to conditional policies (for example, total sobriety or showing up to provider appointments). The Haven’s policy is not to try to skip to the end of the recovery program, but strives to meet every individual where they are in their journey towards stability. Dietrich Bonhoeffer describes this bold equality in his beloved book, Life Together:

Because Christ has long since acted decisively for my brother, before I could begin to act, I must leave him his freedom to be Christ’s; I must meet him only as the person that he already is in Christ’s eyes. This is the meaning of the proposition that we can meet others only through the meditation of Christ. Human love constructs its own image of the other person, of what he is and what he should become. It takes the life of the person into its own hands. Spiritual love recognizes the true image of the other person which he has received from Jesus Christ; the image that Jesus Christ himself embodied and would stamp upon all men. (36)

I am beginning to understand that individuals in crisis do not deserve more conditions to receive help or treatment; they need a place to come out of the cold (or heat) and rest from the constant fear and anxiety of the street world. When the innkeeper opened his barn to Mary and Joseph, he did not ask to see their housing voucher or proof of identity. The hesitation traditional shelters feel in retiring their security measures or conditional requirements is a fear of being cheated; that somehow they might accidentally give assistance to someone undeserving. We fear that we enable laziness or people looking to “play the system” by applying for unneeded social services. I do not claim to have an answer to this worry, but I agree that the first step in offering help is offering a refuge from fear and a place to rest.

The idea of the Sabbath is as old as Genesis 2:2. Among the chaos and disorientation of our lives, we need time for reflection and contemplation. In purposeful solitude, we give thanks for life and, perhaps more honestly, ask why our life is the way that it is. Time for silence and self-reflection is a time to connect inwardly and rekindle a sense of personal identity. Inside The Haven’s building and out of the never-ending public gaze, guests are free to be absolutely alone. Community is a certainly good thing, but cannot be actualized without the acknowledgement of individual space, for “only as we are within the fellowship can we be alone, and only he that is alone can live in the fellowship” (Bonhoeffer 77). On the main floor, there are spaces to gather and spaces for solitude. The renovated sanctuary (a vestige of The Haven’s history as a community church) is usually empty in the mornings. In this quiet space, guests will sometimes sit in contemplation, or sometimes sleep. The clarifying power of the calm sanctuary reminds me that I do not have to push through life alone, but can rely on essential re-centering periods to cultivate new resolve.

In a place as demanding and occasionally chaotic as The Haven, its caretakers are also in need of time to rest. The Haven’s staff intentionally reserves time for contemplation and quiet discussion every Thursday afternoon, where we come together for a three-hour lunch and meeting. In the words of my mentor, the staff needs this time to process the week’s highs and lows so as not to become “jaded and drained” from the emotional fluctuation and intensity inextricable from days at The Haven. Ensuring the mental and spiritual health of its employees is a pronounced value at The Haven. As Phileena Heuertz writes in her memoir, Pilgrimage of a Soul: Contemplative Spirituality for the Active Life, we are all “in need of a calm and grounded center that could withstand the buffeting of a world full of injustice and unrelenting demands” (17). The Haven’s staff advocates strongly for self-care, and believes we must be healthy and sound ourselves to walk with those in crisis.

Earlier this week, I had a bit of an emotional moment after I thought I gave someone in need the wrong advice over the phone. With an affirming conversation, Chris, one of the Haven’s staff members, reassured me that all we try to do is the best we can, and to try not to speculate on the hypothetical results. By setting aside time to work through the emotional and spiritual demands of our roles in this ever-busy community, we strive to cultivate a safe space for every person and voice affected by The Haven’s work.

I confess that I tend to labor under the assumption that the way to find rest for my soul is to finish my grand to-do list, and present it like a book for publishing. In my time here, I am starting to see that it is the quality and health of the journey that matters in seeking restoration within a community. With a good day’s rest, we could all be better seekers.