(Where charity and love are, God is there.)
Downtown San Francisco is full of interesting characters, as in any urban area, and I'm used to seeing the poor and homeless walking around, sometimes asking for handouts. When I have the cash or change to spare, I'm usually happy to give it away to someone, especially if they're playing music or are selling The Street Sheet, a newspaper dedicated to issues around homelessness. It's not always easy for me to give money to someone who is only holding out their hand. I've grown accustomed to telling myself that they either want money for booze or drugs, and walk on by like I don't notice them. "Next time," I tell myself. And then I forget when the next time comes. Luckily, I didn't forget today. I almost did, but I think I'm lucky that I remembered.
I was standing at the bus stop outside of Powell Street Station, waiting for the bus to take me to Grace Cathedral in Nob Hill (a notoriously wealthy area in the City). A skinny man in a purple Adidas shirt and dirty blue jeans came up to me and begged me for seventy cents. I apologized and told him I had nothing to give. He incessantly begged me for even one whole dollar or possibly a fiver. I told him I had no cash. When he turned away to walk down the street, I saw the look of pure heartbreak on his face. "God, I am in fucking hell!" he cried out. My heart broke for him as I saw him attempt to ask another for their help. "God," I asked silently, "What can I give him?"
"Much," I heard from that voice, so still and quiet, and yet so strong it is undeniable. And then I remembered. I had gone out to lunch with a friend the day before and had taken out plenty of money from the bank for the occasion. I had a ten dollar bill still left in my wallet. I didn't hesitate.
"Sir!" I called out. "Sir?" I walked toward him, his face still full of despair as he had been turned away yet again. "I'm sorry, but I forgot I had this," handing him the folded up bill.
"Oh, thank you," he gasped, on the verge of tears. He turned it over and realized how much it was. "Oh God, thank you," his voice breaking and the tears beginning to fall from his tired blue eyes. These were not just tears of utter gratefulness, and I wouldn't be telling this story if that's what it was. Instead, these were tears of pain. "I just feel so awful," he said.
I placed my hand on his shoulder and asked what was wrong. It took him a while to reply. I waited. And then his story poured out. His name was Jordan. He had been a heroin addict for four years, but had been sober for another four, didn't even drink alcohol anymore. He did go to a methadone clinic, but he hadn't been for a few days. One of his friends had died a week ago. He was 29 and had been on the street off and on since he was 19. Originally from Lubbock, TX, he had gone to college there for a couple of years, and had even gone to SF City College for a year. Still, he was in trouble, never having enough. He had family back in Texas that he was still in touch with, but I didn't ask him why he didn't go back. We all have our reasons. In the last year, he had four back surgeries. He even lifted up his shirt to show me the scars. I saw a small black mark that looked like the burnt end of a cigarette butt, along with other scars and what looked like more bumps (from what, I don't know). I listened while he talked.
"Thank you so much for just talking to me," he said. "You have no idea. People just walk on by like they're numb or something. Or they look at you, but they look away with a disgusted look, like 'Oh, you're dirty! Get away from me!' You know, I'm not perfect, but I'm a human being." I wanted to tell him that people sometimes just can't handle the pain of others, but it seemed like a pathetic excuse. We don't always know what we can handle until we open ourselves up to it. "You really made my day," he went on. "It's just so hard when people treat you like shit and you don't even feel like you're worth anything." I looked at him: his face, though he was white, had seen much sun, he had a scruffy dirty-blond colored beard and hair to match; his hands with dirt under his fingernails, were tough and grubby, but were warm and yielding when I touched them. I looked into his eyes, and it was all I could do. . .I embraced him. I think I may have needed the hug as much as he did. Who wouldn't after listening to all that? How could you not want to connect in such a way to someone who just opened themselves up like that?
"God bless you," he said, the tears welling up again. I told him I would pray for him. "You really made my day," he said again.
"You're welcome," I said, really not sure what else to say. He held my hand and kissed it, like an old fashioned gentleman. Then he began to walk away.
"If you have any other thought today," he called back to me, "think about the fact that you made someone like me feel loved." And then Jordan walked down the street, into the heat of the day, to go do whatever it was that he had to to survive.
I'm telling this story not as a way to extol my own virtuous sense of charity. Far from it. As I said before, I had gotten used to forgetting what it was to love and care for "the least of these." I'm poor, but in comparison, I live a life of wealth and privilege. I don't have to beg for my bread, I don't have to huddle in some doorway or sleep on someone's couch. And yet, with all this privilege, I'm doomed to suffer from blindness. This story of meeting Jordan is about how I started to get my sight back. In short, Jordan saved me, possibly more than I could ever save him.
The bus came two minutes after Jordon left. I got on and headed to the cathedral on the top of the hill. The purpose of my excursion to this monument dedicated to Christ (and the Church), was for a confirmation of the youth of our parish, and other parishes within the diocese. (By the way, if you don't get all the church jargon, it's okay. It's really not that important. We're Episcopalians. . .we like to make a ceremony for pretty much everything.) Well, it just so happens that today at the confirmation service, the Gospel reading was the Beatitudes from the book of Matthew.
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
This lesson is revolutionary. Not only does it turn hierarchy on its head, but it even changes the image of God. Before it was "do this, don't do that, and God won't kill or punish you," which kind of made God look like an asshole to be honest. Here, we see a God of justice and peace, but also of reconciliation and undeniable love.
In the sermon, the confirmands were given their marching orders from the Bishop. He said that it is when the confirmation ceremony is over that the real service begins. (He was, of course, playing on the word "service" which can refer to either a church service, or the service that we are called to do by being in the world.) As he spoke, I began to get a sense of something else I had forgotten: that my faith is not safe. I don't mean that my belief is in danger of being dashed or ripped to shreds. On the contrary. I remembered that when I engage myself deeper in my faith, the more unsafe I am. The more risk there is for me in losing my own life (not necessarily in the physical sense). The barriers that society not only encourages me to have, but even sometimes demands and expects, begin to break down and I become "undone" in the process. My faith, my God, is not safe. My faith, my God, comforts me. . .but asks that I not become comfortable. ("Comfort the disturbed, and disturb the comfortable.")
Go back and read the lesson again. These words include both the powerful and the powerless. The privileged and the under classes. So the kingdom of God is for everyone! Put another way, it's available for everyone. It isn't always taken, even when it's offered. And that is understandable. The kingdom of God is not safe. Think about it. Attempting to abolish the status quo and turn a hierarchical social structure on its head? Where's the safety in that? There isn't any. None.
But we are assured that God is there, through it all. And even now. Through our blindness and in our seeing. Through our forgetting and in our remembering. Through our greed and in our abundant charity. Through our fear and in our love. Bidden or unbidden. We only have to remember to pay attention.
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