A Sanctuary of Sobriety

30 years ago this month, 24 men made a decision that changed their lives.

The residents of a Bethesda Project community, now known as Bethesda Sanctuary, entered a pact to stay sober -- together. Until that moment, members of the household frequently would relapse, return home intoxicated, and go to their rooms to sleep it off. If a resident wanted to get sober, he was free to attempt abstinence on his own, but invariably he would be discouraged by his housemates’ lax behavior and relapse again.

Gradually, it became clear that if any one person was to recover, he would need the support and encouragement of the entire community. The residents knew they couldn’t change their South Philly neighborhood, but they could change life within their home. After six months of weekly discussions — with the understanding that the decision must be unanimous — the 24 men agreed their home should become a ‘sober house.’

With this new structure, intoxicated residents would no longer go to their rooms. Instead, men would lose that room and return directly to an emergency shelter. There, they would get in line again and wait for a housing placement. In this decision, they showed it that even if the change of structure was not for themselves, the change would help those who wanted and needed sobriety. Even though doing this might put their own bed at risk, the group took an unusually courageous act for men suffering from alcohol addiction to create a healthy and safe living environment geared towards recovery and accountability.

Since 1990, the basics of addiction treatment have improved and increased, but two things remain the same: the desire not to drink and the need for communal support in recovery. Bethesda Project found this out 30 years ago and carved the way for countless guests and residents to find their voices and make necessary changes to help themselves succeed.

A Family Memorial

On September 15th, Bethesda Project held a memorial for four of our Bethesda North Broad Street residents who had passed away since the beginning of the year: Anthony, David, Ray and Lynn. Normally, Bethesda Project holds separate ceremonies to honor our deceased members; however, COVID-19 restrictions prevented gatherings for over six months. As a result, we honored those we lost this year together.

Memorials are important for our Bethesda Project family. People experiencing homelessness do not receive guidance about end-of-life issues. They often fear that their death will go unnoticed and without remembrance. They might worry about the prospect of being found dead in an alleyway or otherwise unidentifiable.  In addition, some prefer that relatives not be contacted after their death out of concern that they will create a sudden financial burden or sir up negative memories from the past.

These circumstance place Bethesda Project - a family with those who have none - in a unique and privileged position. We assure each member that they are indeed important to us. We will genuinely miss them, and they will be remembered and cherished as brothers and sisters. We promise that their passing, like in any other family, will be honored in a respectful and spiritual manner.

Bethesda North Broad’s service was held twice on the 15th to accommodate additional guests while following protocols for spatial distancing.  In every other way it had the feel of Bethesda Project family throughout: informal, reverent, tender, and lighthearted. Residents, staff and former staff who returned for the occasion shared precious stories of our departed friends, poignant and humorous stories which characterized the gift of their unique personalities. One new staff commented afterwards, “What a wonderful sendoff!” For Bethesda Project, it’s just something that loving families do.

Hiroshima

Back in the `80s, I taught at an International School in Tokyo and had the opportunity to visit the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum. This museum is not for the faint of heart. Exhibit after exhibit offered stark reminders of the human devastation created by a single weapon of mass destruction. A photo still etched in my mind depicted a blackened steel water tank that bore the lighter-toned silhouette of a person evaporated by the blast. All that was left of that person was a shadow. It was a moving visit for me, and I was relieved when it ended.

Later that day, I was on a trolley returning to the home of my host. At one of the stops a man in tattered clothing boarded the trolley, looked around, and headed straight to the empty seat beside me. He landed with a thud and immediately began a disjointed harangue. He presumed that I would understand Japanese (which I did) and thought I’d want to hear his thoughts about religion (which I didn’t). After enumerating the failings of organized religion, he paused thoughtfully. “There is one thing, though, that makes sense: forgiving your enemies. If we could just learn to forgive our enemies, we might actually put an end to wars.  No more wars…; no more Hiroshimas.” Just then the trolley came to a stop and the man stood up, bowed, and departed. After he left, the passenger to my right - genuinely embarrassed for me - whispered, “I’m so sorry. Don’t listen to him.  He’s crazy.”

Over the years, I have known many other people who were experiencing homelessness. I have also met people who were thought to be irrational. Turns out, my Hiroshima acquaintance was the first in a long line of itinerant teachers, and thanks to him, I have learned from them all.

The Masks We Wear

Masks have come a long way. Often associated with Halloween costumes, bank robberies or hospital surgeries, masks are now commonplace in our streets, churches, supermarkets and homeless shelters. Masks have been used to frighten, disguise or protect. But when we talk about masks today, we are referring to those many-colored face coverings we wear to protect ourselves and others from the spread of lethal disease. Today, we consider these masks essential for the health of our society.

Humans can wear other masks, though, to conceal their true selves. These masks are the images we project so that others (or we ourselves) think more highly of us or so we can conceal some perceived weakness about ourselves. These masks suit us when we want to keep our distance and when we wish to be known as little as possible. These psychological masks serve us especially well when we fear opening up to intimate human connections.

So, it might come as a surprise that Bethesda Project volunteers often remark about how openly residents and guests share about their past or present lives. Often, when experiencing homelessness, life can strip people of their masks and their claims to former prestige or self-importance. As a result, those we serve enter a place where they are comfortable with being themselves. While society may force people to remove their masks, to make true change and build meaningful relationships, each person must take off their own. When volunteers tell us that they get more than they give – as they do tell us – this is likely what they mean. Here, we all can see that life’s externals really are superficial; that openness and vulnerability can be incredibly beautiful; that rich and rare blessings await us when we come out from behind our masks and genuinely connect with other human beings.