As we struggled here in Vancouver to discern God's Word for ourselves during our celebration of Mary's midAugust feast, commemorating her "dormition," one of our more evangelical sisters admitted her discomfort with the title "Mother of God." I mined the historical context and offered that, to confess Mary to be the Bearer of God, Theotokos, is really a christological affirmation. That is, it says more about who Jesus is than it does about Mary. In her womb the uncreated God became a fetus with human DNA and participated entirely in our humanity--entirely, even (especially!) in those most estranged, repressed, closeted, peripheral parts of our humanity that we would prefer to disown.
The Word becomes flesh and indwells us: that is also an apt description of our eucharistic celebration. By our participation in the holy mysteries we also become tabernacles of the Divine Presence--Godbearers. But too frequently, when God incarnates, it is as the evangelist reminds us in the same text (John 1: 10,11) not in ways we readily apprehend or welcome. St. John Chrysostom reminds us that Christ is as truly present in the needy sibling as He is in the eucharistic species. I've always liked that statement. At least I thought I did. Still, when the Word becomes flesh, that's not always a pretty sight. Euphoria aside, consider a fresh-born wrinkled screeching bloody infant. That's already shocking enough. But what if he materializes in the guise of an HIV-infected, homeless aboriginal with alcoholic breath? Then what?
I am, as we say, a roving street priest. My "parish" is Vancouver's downtown eastside. Recently a film crew spent some time with me recording glimpses of our street ministry. At one point the cameraperson asked me, "Have you ever seen God?" Unbeknownst to him, his question stayed with me. Only a few days later, late on a sultry Friday afternoon, I had just left First United Church and was making my way home south along Gore. I'd amost stepped out into the intersection at Keefer, just eager to get
Immediately they invited me to join in their revelry by offering me a drink from their shared bottle. I hesitated a moment weighing the consequences. [Editor: for Heinrich's Hesitancy see preceeding article, "C is for Cup."] I knew I couldn't hesitate long or my apprehension would become apparent. Whatever I was going to do I had to decide and act quickly, before the opportune moment was lost, or my reservations would be exposed and their hospitality offended. I considered the health risks. I asked after the content and was informed it was "rum and coke." Without further ado I took a hesitant swig. Blah! Yuk! I grimaced and made a face. We all laughed and I confessed my inexperience and frailty as a hard drinker. One of the chaps pulled an unopened generic can of coke from a plastic bag and offered me that instead.
I was acutely aware of the generous hospitality being offered me. While at St. James I had administered both of these guys' funds. I knew they only had $175 a month each to live on and even that was being threatened with imminent cutbacks. Yet here they were offering me hospitality. I tactfully said as much, trying politely to refuse, "I don't want t take your last coke." But I was countered by, "Just last Wednesday was issue day and we are still pretty flush." Nevertheless I was aware of the cost of the proffered hospitality. Meanwhile the other pulled a fruit juice and yogurt drink in a plastic bottle from another bag and knowing me to be a "wholesome-granola-kinda'-guy" offered me that instead. I realized I could no longer stall. This was about receiving hospitality. I gratefully acquiesced.
So I settled down on the grass with them. Miraculously, within moments, because I had accepted their hospitality, they were opening up and sharing vulnerable stories of their lives and journeys with me. I was with them hardly twenty minutes all totaled, but within that time they both revealed their HIV+ status to me, told me what they'd thought of me when they initially met me, and now. One told