It was a
typical Sunday morning, sun streaming through the stained-glass window, the
microphone making its rounds through the sanctuary for sharing time, when Brian
raised his hand to speak. I’m part of a local coalition against homelessness,”
he began. “In December we started talking about what could be done to help
homeless people this winter. A few weeks later, an overnight warming shelter
was opened. It’s unbelievable that this came together so fast. That says
something about our community. The mayor, non-profit agencies, even some
churches helped meet these needs. I’m grateful.”
I’ve
learned to perk up when Brian speaks. He’s a man of measured words,
well-studied and direct, with a teddy-bearish demeanor and the sort of quick
wit that makes him everyone’s buddy. Having experienced homelessness himself,
his perspective has opened my eyes to the complex rules of survival on the
streets, and the rigors of compassionately walking someone in from the cold.
I still
can’t shake his words, “Even some
churches helped.”
I’d read
about the need for a shelter from the comfort of my kitchen over several
lunches of reheated left-overs. The newspaper picked up the story of a local
couple trying to provide refuge to homeless men when temps dip below twenty
degrees. “We don’t want [these men] to freeze to death,” Julie Kramer
explained. “We want them to survive. That is our mission.”
The fuse
was lit on this conversation. How many
homeless men exist within city limits? Is an emergency shelter really needed?
If so, whose responsibility is it? Powerful people asked important
questions while Mother Nature drummed her fingers, holding temps steady at an
unseasonably warm twenty-five degrees. I followed the updates, my mind drifting to the estimated 80 congregations in our small city, comfortably
vacant overnight.
Driving
out of town one evening in the dusky, December half-light, I passed a church sign with a
familiar message, “Remember Jesus this Christmas.”
Our problem is not that we don't remember Jesus. Our problem is that we do not recognize him.
Our problem is not that we don't remember Jesus. Our problem is that we do not recognize him.
He is
the woman up the street, exhausted from the grind of relapse and recovery.
He is
the child who recently chirped, smiling, “I love myself even though I’m brown!”
He is
the man doubling up on socks, huddled in the “tent cities” we try to ignore,
half-hidden in the overgrowth.
We remember him, of course we do.
But do we see him? Do we want to?
~
It was
still December, right in the middle of the brainstorming sessions, courthouse rallies, and newspaper articles when
a long-lost friend showed up at the front door after having disappeared for a while. He
emerged from the shadows in a mishmash of layers, collapsing onto me and Cory
in a despairing, moonlit group hug. Sobbing
into our necks, he rattled off a discouraging state of affairs, pausing only to
rake in jagged gulps of air. Tears of regret and weariness dripped from his
blue eyes to his scruffy beard.
I
couldn’t help but grin in the dark. He’s
back!
That
dimly-lit stoop was a hospital waiting room. An airport terminal. A sanctuary. Only
after my eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness, was I able to really see him.
Jesus.
Only Jesus
could turn us away from ourselves and toward our wounded brother. Only He could
abolish the murky past, the missing pieces, the gaps in our understanding. Only
He could elevate an ordinary weeknight to a bittersweet homecoming.
When we train
our eyes to seek God’s face in our ordinary midst, we receive Christ, moment by
moment. He came as a baby, but he didn't stay that way. Until we pluck Jesus from the manger and track his audacity to the margins, our relationship with him will languish in
the caverns of our memory when we could be hugging him on the porch.
It’s now
last sweep of January and our city is being slammed with the lowest wind chills on
record, plunging to fifty degrees below zero. We didn’t know this was coming,
those weeks we delighted in trading our down coats for fall jackets and allowing
government officials to find shelter for the poor.
I'm comforted that there's a warm bed for anyone in need, thanks to the local non-profit that opened its heart and its building for overnight use. Yes, a few churches came together in support of this solution, but I have to wonder what we miss when we hesitate to tear our own doors off the hinges in welcome, our vision clouded by the empty promises of hyper-vigilance and self-protection.
I'm comforted that there's a warm bed for anyone in need, thanks to the local non-profit that opened its heart and its building for overnight use. Yes, a few churches came together in support of this solution, but I have to wonder what we miss when we hesitate to tear our own doors off the hinges in welcome, our vision clouded by the empty promises of hyper-vigilance and self-protection.
God moved his kingdom into every
heartbroken neighborhood and hides in plain sight. Should we choose to live as
if it’s true, eyes open and hopeful at street level, exposed to the elements as
we wave Him into warmth, our churches will be shaken, our lives will be
complicated, and our cities will flourish.
We will see his glory in our midst and it will set us free.
“I tell you the truth, when you
refused to help the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were refusing
to help me.” Matthew 25:45
“And the Word became flesh and
dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory…” John 1:14