HoBoy!

Do you have any weaknesses? Something that makes you uncomfortable or uncertain, that freezes your better self in its tracks and calls you with a siren’s song to a disappointing mediocrity? Of course you do. So do I. We all have them. It’s just a matter of figuring out what it is. Take Superman, for example. He can fly around downtown (if I may borrow Matchbox 20’s verbiage), leap over buildings in a single bound, and yada yada yada--but put him in front of a green Kryptonite stone and he’s about as strong as Sammy Sosa without his steroids. That poor sap, Superman--he has a glaring weakness, and he can’t get rid of it. Luckily for us, we are nothing like Superman. We can fix our weaknesses.

Up until very recently, hobos were one of my weaknesses. It’s true. Speaking in front of a crowd, I could handle. Complaining at a restaurant, not a problem--and sometimes even a pleasure. But dealing with a hobo? Yikes! If a hobo on the street asked me for money, my mind would freeze and I would go into deer-in-the-headlights mode (okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating a bit, but “deer-in-the-headlights mode” is a wonderful phrase, and I had to include it). In all seriousness, though, such a situation, common as it is in urban areas, was one of uncertainty and discomfort. On one hand, we have the societal (and in some ways religious) push toward simple acts of charity, which is often represented as giving money to the poor folks in the streets. Although this is a shallow characterization (more on that later), it is nonetheless the message we often see in movies and hear in sermons. People like to think of giving monetary handouts as a righteous act.

On the other hand, there is the common sense view which many (or perhaps most) of us were raised with--people begging for handouts on the street need money for booze and/or drugs; or, at the very least, they are lazy fools who could just as easily take orders at McDonald’s as they take handouts at State and Madison (to paraphrase Michael Jordan’s provocative anecdote).

Sometimes this common sense view is confirmed in comically obvious ways--such as the case of the young man (in the prime of his life, no kidding) who trudges through traffic daily at the same intersection, year-round, with a sign that says “Please help me, God bless you.” It would seem obvious to everyone except the man himself that his daily activity is both strenuous and risky--and the honest occupation of coalminer would not only fulfill both of these criteria, but it would also yield a steady paycheck and a peaceful intersection. Yet there he is, and there he remains to this day.

But some hobos are convincing (and, no doubt, some are completely kosher). But that’s just the problem--the stakes in this game are higher than they seem. As wonderful as it is to help a man in honest need, that’s how horrible an act it is to give money to an addict. In such a case, we are actively assisting a destructive habit-- bringing the poor soul one step closer to oblivion! If that’s charity, then I missed something in Sunday school.

The point is, we cannot just give money to people. We might be doing them a huge disservice, far greater than ignoring or refusing them, in doing so. The risk of someone’s life is too great to play around with. Heartless as it sounds, there is no other way.

So here’s the question: why is it so hard to refuse? A recent situation forced me to face the issue once and for all. I was walking to the car after eating a wonderful lunch with my Mom, when a man in a heavy coat (in retrospect I should’ve known, but I didn’t take a good look at it at first) asked me if I could spare a few dollars for gas (in retrospect I should’ve known how many holes there were in that kind of story, but remember? by this time I was already in idiot mode). Hmm. I had about 4 seconds to respond…what to say? I wasn’t actually going to give him any money--most of the money in my wallet was borrowed from my Mom and was not mine to give--and regardless of that, I didn’t want to risk a theft. No question there. I wouldn't give him any money. But how to say no? I hummed and hawed for a moment, then rattled off some lame excuse about my Mom having all the money. Feeling slightly shameful (which I’m now ashamed to admit), I parted by saying “I hope you find some, though.” Then I realized that I was in the presence of an angel.
No, it wasn’t the panhandler. That’s how it usually gets shown in movies, I grant you (and Hebrews 13:2 should by no means be taken lightly), but in real life it was the exact reverse for me--the angel took the form of a blond-haired female passerby of about 35, who brazenly addressed him after my comment by saying “And I also hope you find somewhere to work, because you come here to beg every day!” I got into the car and processed what I’d just seen. First, I couldn’t believe that woman’s guts--I didn’t know they made people that confident anymore. I admired that. It was also at that moment when I realized the thinness of the hobo’s request, and the absurdity of the shame I’d felt. To have the man’s chicanery exposed with such blunt words of witness was like a blow to the head--except it felt great. My illusions were gone!

I say that that woman was an angel, because she lifted the wool of ignorance and deceit from my eyes so that I could see the truth within this one isolated situation. In seeing the truth, I realized that my shame was totally unwarranted--the man was proven to be a con-artist! Even if he had been on the level, shame would not have been a good response. I had my reasons not to give, and that should be enough for anyone--especially myself! I knew then and there that a confident response of “no” would have sufficed, and would have been the proper way to retain my dignity (which, the way I see it, I flushed down the toilet in this situation).
Most important of all, it should be realized that the only proper attitude of a panhandler ought to be one of the sincerest and humblest entreaty. Money, after all, is not easily earned in this world, and to receive it as a free gift from a stranger is not only a rare, but almost a miraculous occurrence. Shaking a cup, or halfheartedly muttering “God bless you” just doesn’t cut it for me. A panhandler ought to realize the flabbergasting fortune of his situation, notwithstanding his dire straits--he is alive, and (in most cases) possesses the opportunity to interact with the wider world (an opportunity widely sought-after in lonely nursing home rooms and hospital beds across the world). Seriously. They have no place asking someone else for a handout, so they ought to be amazed and overjoyed at the mere fact that anyone even responds to them. At presstime, such behavior has not yet been observed in any hobo. And as for me: Shame? Are you kidding me? Well, I know one thing: I wasn’t kidding when I acted like a fool in that parking lot.

I realized that day, thanks to the intervention of the “angel” (who actually happened to be a salon stylist who worked in the same complex where I’d been dining, and so was privy to the hobo’s daily occupation in the parking lot), that my weakness happened to be hobos. And unlike Superman, my weakness was dissolved with a simple and conscious act of the will (along with some more in-depth reflection…evidenced by this blog post). From now on, if I am accosted by a panhandler, I will not give them money, and will be proud of it. If I respond to them, it will be to say, quite simply, “No.” I simply will not. If I am ill-judged at the end of time for adopting this stance, I will hang my head in remorse before my Lord--and without a doubt, my shame will be justified. But I’m betting against that ending. I think a weakness has been obliterated--and that’s good enough for me!

Phone Home

Have you ever felt like life just played a prank on you? The times I speak of are the nuisances of life, the times that leave us thinking, "Now why did things have to happen like that? It could just as easily have happened this way..." And we follow such thoughts with daydreams about what could have been—ordinarily the most useless type of daydream there is. Nonetheless, life plays its pranks, and sometimes through no fault of our own we find ourselves stuck in a situation we do not want, and would give much to change.

Today in my job as the church's weekend receptionist, I received a call from a wonderful woman whose calm but thoughtful manner at once caught me off-guard and brought me to my most alert senses. Perhaps you have met such people. Perhaps, bless your heart, you are one. They are the rarest of breeds, but perennially the type of person this world most needs. They speak slowly and deliberately, but their manner lacks not an ounce of confidence. They seldom stutter or stop in the middle of a sentence, for the simple reason that they are sure of what they want to say before they start saying it. And unlike the rest of the huddled masses, they are not afraid of pauses in conversation.

Such a one was this woman, whose first response to my inquiry of "Can I help you?" was "I don't know!" Such an exchange perfectly typifies this kind of person. Rather than play by the common social rules (rules which nonetheless remain useful and beneficial in most cases), this person retains a measure of perspective and sees society for the game that it is, and thus chooses when to play and when to sit out and make up their own rules. Such people are always needed by a society because they remind the rest of us that we belong to a social system, an order of sorts, yes; but that the system is not what we answer to, ultimately—that there is Something higher than the human structures we have implemented throughout history. Such people inspire us to question the system, to examine it, and perhaps to better align it with what we know is right. Yesterday's civil rights crusaders and Abolitionists, to use a popular example of the day, aligned America's practice with its inspired theory, and it all started with people asking questions (and, perhaps, responding to questions) in ways which no one had previously had the moral courage to do—taking their example, of course, from a well-known Nazorean of a prior epoch, who specialized in moral courage.

But back to the tale at hand—a wonderful woman called in who, despite being 79 years old, had the voice, demeanor, and conversational pizazz of a 25 year old. After telling me that she would call the church back later in the week (the priest she wanted to talk to was not available), she asked my my name and then began regaling me with a personal story involving St. Joseph. As is known to happen at this job, another call came ringing in on the other phoneline—just as she was reaching the conclusion of her story (as I recall, it had been a very good story, to boot). I wanted to wait on the second call and finish speaking with her first, but I had waited too long already—a moment more, and the second caller would be diverted to the answering machine, a definite no-no for an on-duty receptionist. Siezing on a momentary pause in the woman's speech, I asked her if she could hold on a moment while I answered another call. This proved a worthy decision, because the other caller was requesting Last Rites for a dying family member. It also proved a disappointing decision, because as I took care of the 2nd caller, I noticed that, after about 3 minutes of waiting, the wonderful storytelling woman had hung up or been disconnected. I hadn't been able to hear the finish of her story, or say a proper good-bye; I also didn't get her name or number, with which I might call her back.

So there I was, unable to contact her, and left with the anxiety of wondering whether she thought I had just ditched her. Why did this bother me so much? I believe it was the pinchy feeling of broken camaraderie, the tragedy of a "beautiful friendship" that never begins, the ironic nuisance of a misunderstanding which causes alienation where unity would otherwise reign easily. I had been brimming with good intentions, but the click of a phone had rendered them homeless. So life had its prank, and I was left scratching my head.

Why do such things happen? It would have been so easy for that second call to have come in just five minutes later. Five minutes! Did God not see that? Does He not see all of these things, our better alternatives to what we call reality? The only answer, of course, is that He does—He sees them more clearly than we possibly could, and clearly enough to know that they are not better. Realizing this and resting in the truth it provided, I set about guessing what I was supposed to learn from this situation.

This woman had had an effect on me, and despite the abrupt and disappointing end to our interaction, the effect remained—and it constituted the first lesson—calm down. Speak deliberately. Mean what you say. Don't be afraid of the other person as you talk to them, but look on them with compassion, the lowly, fraternal kind of compassion that only a fellow creature can know. Conversation is a connection, not a performance. It is ideas being traded, not lines being read. And all the petty templates we follow for how to interact with each other, they are all just suggestions, and it is no sin to break such guidelines. Great things have been started in that way.

Now after remembering those wonderful ideas, I naturally felt better. In fact, as is the way of things when we follow such adages as the aforementioned, I began to feel a creeping sensation that I was not alone—by which I mean, I began to notice the presenc of God, in later conversations as well as in all the beautifully silent spaces of solitude, those blessed places in which Thoreau dwelt devotedly for so many peaceful days and nights.

This feeling of a Presence at once visible and invisible, beautiful and elusive, made me realize yet again the true relationship of a Catholic to the Church. This recognition of divine Presence in a drab and empty office hallway reminded me that all of our ceremony, all of our decoration and tradition, is designed to bring about Christ's Presence in the world. We can so easily get caught up in devotion to the institution of the Church, and in doing so we turn away from that noble body's humble mission—to help keep Christ present and active in the world until He Himself returns in His full glory. Many people today attack the Church and its ideas and mission, but if we fight them back on the grounds of defending the Church, rather than the ideas and mission which give it purpose, we are idolizing a body of disciples, starting our own heresy, so to speak—a heresy of such implosive orthodoxy that it threatens to topple the Church from within. No, the true Catholic loves the Church, and fights alongside it or within it, but not for it. The Church itself doesn't even do that.

We don't know the ultimate purposes behind God's actions in this world, but we do know how we are called to respond—take the best out of each situation, and work with it until we have forged something better. We can take confidence, even amidst apparent disappointments, that God is not our enemy—He knows what He is doing, and there will be a day when we can see how everything in this human drama worked together to bring about the fulfillment and triumph of all that is truly good. Perhaps on that day, I will finally catch up with this blessed woman again, and we will have all the time we need to share stories and listen, relaxing in the abundant Presence and sweet Love of the God Who saved us.

Do You Have a Minute?

"Hey buddy—" he seemed friendly enough, so I inquiringly glanced at him as I drew near, and he continued—"Do you have a minute…to support gay marriage?"

With my short answer of "No thanks" he looked at me like I'd murdered his puppy. I walked on. What else was there to do?

As I entered the library I thought about this situation, and how absurd his position was. He and so many like him choose to define themselves by a movement, by a label, perhaps by certain behaviors. Everyone is entitled to an opinion, but if someone expresses an opinion against their movement, their label, their behaviors, it's no longer a reasoned position—it has become personal. Judging from the grave and disbelieving way that he looked at me, I have no doubt that he believed (as his movement has taught him to) that I hate him.

How could I hate such a man? My heart bleeds for him and for all those others like him who sell themselves short every day, sacrificing their individuality and their gifts for the sake of a temporal movement that is misguided and unnatural. I pray that they will have the wisdom to see the world from outside their own shallow and self-centered perspectives—a big step we all must take—and see themselves as agents of goodness in a world gone awry. How will gay marriage feed the hungry? How will it give purpose to the broken and dejected, how will it bring about peace in a world that is perennially on the brink of unprecedented destruction?

Do you have a minute? Say a prayer for such people today, if you can. But be sure also to pray for those in need of food, water, and shelter, and those in need of God's Love. That ought to cover all of us.