This commentary is by Rev. Elissa Johnk. She is lead minister at First Congregational Church in Burlington.
I currently serve as minister in a beautiful spot in downtown Burlington. Our front doors open to a view of Lake Champlain that is breathtaking, and speaks of the charm of this historic town. Yet it is not uncommon for me to arrive at work to find blood trickling down the front steps. To see folks sleeping open-mouthed, with wounds that are purple and oozing from their bandages.
I often go out to ask folks to inject drugs elsewhere, and end up drawn into conversation, even if they never meet my eye. I have lost track of the number of times I’ve been told, “I don’t want to do this.” When I ask about treatment, they’ve been – seven, eight times. But 14 days is never long enough — if they can even get that.
The church staff go out multiple times a day to check on folks who are impossible to rouse. We stock antibiotic ointment, fresh gauze and sterile solution. I have seen dressings fall away to expose wounds that go all the way to the bone.
While substance use disorder and homelessness have long been problems in the state, this past year has made the crisis the preeminent matter of moral — humanitarian — concern for my congregation and our communities.
But here’s the thing you might not expect: I am just as worried about those of us who do not suffer from substance use disorders as I am worried for those who do. It is increasingly clear to me what fear and anxiety do to the human soul.
When there is nowhere for folks to go to get the care they need, our empathy wanes. The conversations I overhear (or see boldly proclaimed on Reddit) have become gradually darker, sliding more frequently into dehumanization. If we can’t fix it, the thinking goes, it must be because “these people” (dogs, I have seen folks write) are to blame. It makes sense — the moral dissonance of such widespread substance use disorder without any hope of treatment — that’s hard to wrap our brains around.
Yet, in the face of this dehumanization, almost every single one of us knows someone who has struggled, or even died, from a substance disorder. I have buried parents who have overdosed, with their children looking on. I have buried children who have overdosed, with their parents looking on. Bright lights, all of them, who struggled — hard — before their deaths to overcome the disorder that claimed their lives. They are not the exception, but the rule.
We don’t have to just let this happen. We don’t have to let folks die as we beef up economic, treatment and social-safety nets. We don’t have to let our downtowns succumb to the despair we are currently experiencing. Research is clear that overdose prevention centers can save lives, help people get into treatment, prevent wounds and infectious disease and reduce public drug use in the communities that host them. They must be tried.
Our neighbors need a place to be. A place that is safe. A place where they can have access to resources and relationships that open the door to valid, sustainable treatment. Of course, OPCs are not a silver bullet to solving the crisis; they are only one part of a robust social service and treatment net, but they save lives. To think we would deny someone access to a life-saving option, simply because of the nature of their disease, is unconscionable.
The need for an OPC is beyond clear — not just for those suffering individuals themselves, but also for the overworked first responders, for the business owners and for those whose hearts break every day watching their neighbors waste away with no safe options in sight. The absence of this resource means that we are asking community members like me, my office manager and security staff to serve as unofficial OPCs without any of the necessary training or resources.
We are asking store clerks, clergy, librarians, shoppers and shop owners to be counselors, medics and cleaners. The burden on our emergency teams, our businesses and our cities is too heavy to bear. Not having overdose prevention centers puts the burden on all of us. And we are not able to hold it. It doesn’t work. For anyone.
In the face of all of this, I am so proud of the communities that have been working together to step up and to support our neighbors struggling with substance use disorders. While they have been failed by our current systems of care and accountability, it is heartening to see how many folks are invested in actual solutions. I’m so proud of our Vermont legislators for recognizing this is not a political issue, but a humanitarian one. I am proud they have listened not just to the research, but also to their own moral compass. We have followed our fear long enough. Let us follow the evidence. The time is now.
Read the story on VTDigger here: Rev. Elissa Johnk: Overdose prevention centers save lives; they must be tried.