Barking to the Choir: The Power of Radical Kinship

by Gregory Boyle

Yeah . . . look before you leap . . . but leap. Richard Rohr was right: “We don’t

think ourselves into a new way of living. We live ourselves into a new way of thinking.”

Once a gang member, always a gang member. Once a felon, always a felon. Once a surly guard, always one. They are “the other” and most assuredly belong to Them and not to Us. They are “the monsters at the margins.” But the

truth is, we belong to each other, and to this spacious God of ours, who thinks there are no bad guys, just beloved children.

Another great Jesuit, Dean Brackley, who died too young, once spoke movingly of meeting his hero, Dorothy Day, when he was in his twenties and studying to be a priest. When he asked her how to live the gospel, she simply replied: “Stay close to the poor.” She could have said, I suppose, help the poor, rescue the poor, save the poor. But no—stay close to the poor. The invitation is not to romanticize the poor but to recognize that some essential piece of our own salvation is tied up in our proximity to those on the outskirts.

We are sent to the margins NOT to make a difference but so that the folks on the margins will make us different.

Pope Francis writes that “the Gospel of the marginalized is where our credibility is at stake.” The essence of our credibility lies not in our rescuing or saving the poor but rather by humbly surrendering to their leadership and listening to them. My spiritual director, Bill Cain, says, “Putting on Christ is the easy part, but never taking him off . . . that’s a challenge.”

Service is where we begin, yet it remains the hallway that leads to the ballroom. The ballroom is the place of exquisite mutuality. At Homeboy Industries, I’m not the “Great Healer” and that homeboy over there is in need of my precious healing. Truth be told, we are all in need of healing; we are all a cry for help. The affection of God unfolds when there is no daylight separating us.

As Dorothy Day writes, “We have all known the long loneliness and we have learned that the only solution is love and that love comes with community.”

Often enough we ask ourselves: How do we bridge the distance between “direct service” and “structural change”? I have learned that it’s never about “saying” very much at all but, rather, receiving, listening, and valuing people until they come out with their hands up—feeling, for perhaps the first time, valuable. Receiving them and allowing yourself to be reached by them is all that’s asked of us. And anyone who is the proud owner of a pulse can do this. Wage peace by listening.

“Louis,” I say, “let me see if I got this right. You were comparing your experience to a Holocaust survivor’s?” There is no hesitation for Louis. “No,” he says with the clarity of a saint. “No, there is no comparing what this man has suffered and what I’ve lived through.” Now he thinks and his eyes moisten before he speaks again. “No, I wasn’t competing with him.” A tear trails down his cheek. “I was connecting with him.”

At a Congregational church where I’ve been invited to speak, the service begins with a unique translation of Revelations 21: “This is the story of the beautiful city of God. This city sparkles with the loveliness of rare gems. The city is filled with light. There are no shrines or temples because everything here is understood to be sacred and filled with the holy. This is the story of the beloved community. In this community we find welcome. In this community we find kinship. In this community we find our voice. In this community, all are loved.” A homegirl said once, “When I arrived at Homeboy . . . it was like you all were waiting for me.”

Somehow the highest praise of God is not in speaking unintelligibly but, rather, in speaking a language of inclusion where barriers are dismantled, circles are widened, and no one is left outside. No one.