Dreams and Selfie Sticks

I want to share a dream that I had.

I was in Paterson at an outreach in an overgrown outdoor shopping center of sorts. It was like an outlet mall, but the shops were all boarded up. There were lots of people hanging out. Homeless folks were sleeping on benches and playing games on tables.

We had a volunteer team from Grace Church with us but there was another group that was going to meet us on location. I took the time to brief the Grace team with some basic outreach rules and expectations for the day, but the other group just jumped right into the action when we arrived. I didn’t have time to give them any training.

There was a guy who met us there who had served with us many times before. He was an older white guy.

He carried a selfie stick.

He would walk up to our homeless guests and snap a picture with them without asking for permission or getting consent. I noticed it happening, but for some reason I didn’t really think anything of it. Then a guest, a regular, approached me in tears because “someone” had taken a photo of her against her will.

“Excuse me. That man in red just took my photo,” she said. She was a strong, dignified African American woman. I knew in my dream that she was a leader in her community and a force to be reckoned with. And one of our representatives had just humiliated her.

“I’m so sorry,” I replied. “Please tell me who it was so I can go delete the photo.” She just shook her head.

It wasn’t the photo that she was concerned about, it was her autonomy.

In that moment he snatched it away, and there was no action as simple as hitting the delete button that could change it now. She just walked away in tears.

I scanned the crowd of guests and volunteers and then I saw him again. This time, he was walking up behind a guest who was clearly intoxicated and holding the selfie stick out in front of his face, smiling.

Click.

The man he took a photo “with” could barely stand. I heard the woman who had just left feeling violated in my head, and anger swelled up inside of me. I don’t like yelling at outreaches, it makes everyone edgy. But in that moment, I didn’t care. I yelled across the noise of the outreach, the chatter of conversation and the music that we were playing on our bluetooth speaker.

“Hey! Don’t take that picture!” There was something inside of me that was breaking.

The man was wearing a red shirt and a bandanna. He was having the time of his life. He was shocked that I was yelling at him. He was confused.

“What?” He said. “He’s an alcoholic, he won’t remember it anyway!” His response hit me like a punch in the gut.

“Walk with me.” I put my arm around his shoulder and walked with him towards the edge of the outreach. “I didn’t get a chance to brief your team when you got here did I?”

“No. But I have been out here plenty of times.”

“Ok. Here’s one of the rules that we apparently never told you, we never take photos of people without their consent. Ever.”

“But he was an alcohol…” Clearly, I was the one who didn’t understand.

I interrupted. “Do you have a Facebook account?” The selfie stick said it all, of course he had a Facebook account.

“Yes.” He was curious where I was going with this.

“Well, how would you feel if I found you on the worst day of your life, took a photo of you, and then posted it on my wall without asking for your permission?” The point landed. Revelation started in his eyes and then moved down throughout his extremities. His shoulders sagged and he dropped his hands. Subconsciously, he started to put his phone into his pocket.

“I have never thought about it that way,” He said. He was shaking his head.

“And another thing. That is not an alcoholic.” Now he looked confused again. “If our Gospel means anything, then that man is the embodiment of Christ himself. In Matthew 25, Jesus says whatever you have done for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you have done unto me. Unto me.” I repeated it. “That means that in some strange, mystical way that “alcoholic” died for your sins and for mine. And I will be damned if I allow you to portray him as anything less than dignified, majestic, and beautiful.”

As I said these last three words, my eyes filled with tears and my voice cracked.

“That is not an alcoholic,” I managed to say again. “That is Jesus!”

I turned and saw one of our guests nodding out at one of the tables. “And that is Jesus.” One guy was selling drugs to his neighbor. “That is Jesus.” One lady with no idea of where she was danced in circles happily to the music. “And that is Jesus.”

“We owe them more than our pity. We owe them more than our compassion. We owe them our gratitude.”