My Confession and Plea

As I prepare to bring this series of weekly columns to a close after three years, I think back to 1989 when I started to research three centuries of American poverty-fighters. I wrote about them in a 1992 book, The Tragedy of American Compassion, that became the historical basis for the “compassionate conservatism” popularized by Texas Governor George W. Bush, whom I informally advised (and still like). The project fizzled during his presidency, ground down by Washington politics but also by some internal realities.

Regarding help for those sunk into long-term homelessness, two of my notions proved inadequate. First, in promoting “compassionate conservatism” I emphasized the literal meaning of “com-passion”: with suffering. My goal was for the homed, particularly Christians, to have one-to-one relationships with the homeless. That intimacy worked when it came to helping children and some mugged adults. It was too big of an ask, though, when trying to help addicts, alcoholics, and the mentally ill — they usually need help from experienced professionals.

Second, Christian homeless shelters I visited during the 1990s often depended on hope that long-term homeless humans, sometimes drunk or drugged up, would change instantly as they sat through a sermon. This “moment of decision” theology was dominant at the time. Occasionally, in God’s mercy, that miracle happened. More often, though, the person who came for “two hots and a cot” got dinner and a night’s sleep, and then shuffled off the next morning after a 6 a.m. breakfast.

Thousands of equivalent failures, without the sermons, were nightly experiences at hundreds of governmental and secular shelters. We came to see “homelessness” as an intractable problem — and the number grew to the hundreds of thousands. Caring people hoped for a breakthrough. Some thought they had found one in 2010 when the Federal Interagency Council on Homelessness adopted “Housing First” as the official U.S. policy and made it the only approach that would receive funding from the Department of Housing and Urban Development.

Housing First in practice meant giving each homeless person his or her own apartment, no questions (or few questions) asked. That secularized “moment of decision” theology into “moment of material change” hope. The faith was that once a person was off the street, removed from the ravages of weather and loneliness, a life would turn around. Some homeless lives did change, but often the result was disastrous. Those who were addicts or alcoholics could continue to kill themselves slowly — “suicide on the installment plan” — but this time out of sight.

Those who were lonely and isolated could hide in their apartments, even more apart from others. Those trying to hide from God could now believe they were invisible behind walls. Meanwhile, many among the homeless became even more resentful as they saw their lives subject to a lottery. Cities spent hundreds of millions on apartments for the homeless but not the hundreds of billions that would be needed to house all — and taxpayers rebelled, with some feeling guilty as they rebelled. Many cities, pressed by D.C., adopted a “worst first” policy: Addicts, alcoholics, and criminals got to the head of the line or received more housing lottery tickets. Nicer guys finished last.

While I’ve never been homeless except as part of my journalistic research, I was addicted to an anti-Christian ideology. God gave me a shattering moment that turned me from a destructive path toward Christ, but getting there was a three-year process (and in some ways a continuing, never-ending one). Christians speak of “justification,” when God through Christ’s sacrifice no longer holds our sins against us, but also “sanctification,” the work of a lifetime. Giving a deeply-troubled person an apartment may seem like a worthwhile giant step — but much of the time it’s stranding a person on an island, across a bridge too far from the real help he needs.

Change takes time and community. It’s become a cliché to say that we have a loneliness epidemic in this country, but it’s true among both rich and poor. I’ve listened to Christians with a “whew, I’m saved” variety of perfectionism, and to materialists who see apartments as close-to-perfect solutions. But, as Anne Lamott wrote about writing, “Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft.” That was coarse, but concise.

“Housing First” was only the first draft of the 21st century homelessness policy. What might a second draft look like? Can both Christian shelters and their secular equivalents change thinking from all or nothing to step by step? Can they show people sunk in misery and depression that they’re missing a world of enchantment?