Hungry Eyes

     Walking downtown Tegucigalpa behind my fellow Micah companions, I said a silent prayer before our annual street ministry Christmas dinner: "Lord, give me your eyes to see tonight."
     Coming to a small tucked away building, I noticed some of the typical street crew already waiting patiently outside the doorway.  After giving them our usual fist-pound greeting, I happily accompanied the familiar faces inside...  until I felt a slight push from the man at the door. "No," he said forcefully. "Dinner is not until 5."
     I didn't realize his order was not meant for me until he looked at us Micah staff members and clarified, "You all can go in, just not them." I knew this was in no way meant to degrade the street guys, but I couldn't help but feel another added layer of separation between us.  This was an us and them situation all over again. In some ways, I would be okay with the us and them aspect of tonight, because I knew that we would be the ones serving them. Hosting them. Loving on them. This type role separation--served and server--would be an act of love.  We are serving you, because we want you to know that we are not above you.  Separation as an act of unification.  And yet, I didn't want to be separated in this particular moment.  So I stayed outside, and instead of going in just to feel like I was doing something (when I wasn't actually needed), I stayed outside with them.  And waited.
     And then I saw.
     Waiting--an intricate and key element to the experience.  Anticipation increasing, appetites stirring, tension building.  Gathered outside with my hungry friends, we were united in purpose.  Each of us held an invitation, and we were ready to begin.  Instead of hating the wait, I drank in the sight of each of the precious, worn faces around me, and silently prayed that their hearts would awaken to the greater wait for the greater party that is to come.
     After we entered, we played a game, sang some songs, and heard a message.  But the wait continued--nothing could distract our guests from their roaring appetites.  And believe me, they roared.  When the food came out, manners did too.  If you want to know what people are really thinking behind all those pleases, thank-yous, and "I'm so lovely" fronts, just hang out with a street kid.  You'll get a whole better view of shamelessly authentic humanity.
     "Give me! Mine! Over here!" Grabbing hands--pushing through others to get their plate. Lying tongues--trying to deceive their way into extra shares.  Hungry eyes--looking for more before they have finished what they already have. So many requests to bring food to "other family members", which seems so sweet on the surface, but it also can be a well-rehearsed method to get more for themselves.
     And then I saw.
     These are survivors in a dog eat dog world.  Fighting for food because the world has taught them that "the next meal" is never a sure thing.  Pushing their way to the front of the line because the world has taught them that all they get is everyone else's scraps.  Hiding their meal because the world has taught them that no one can be trusted.
      Meanwhile, as each of these guys (and gals) was fearfully operating in survivor mode, none of them was actually enjoying the meal in front of them.  Highly alert, our guests either shovelled food in their mouths too quickly to be tasted or stored it away for a later time.  Scanning the crowd, I couldn't help but wonder if anyone was truly there--tasting the meal, embracing the fellowship, receiving the love.
     And then I saw.
     This is us.  We have been given opportunity after opportunity to enjoy the meal in front of us, with the people in front of us, by the people in front of us.  And how often do we instead think about the next bite before finishing the one in our mouth?  How often do we think about the person who is not with us instead of truly embracing the person who is right there next to us?  How often do we waste the present moment worrying about a future one? Afraid of surviving, we aren't truly living.  Caught in painful memories of the past and worried about future unknowns, the present is lost.  And the present is the only moment where we are called to live.  And so often, we don't, even when there is a beautiful feast sitting right in front of us.  There is no us and them--this is us.
     So if this is us, what hope do we have?
     And then I saw.
     Jesus.
     His message is eternal life--his message is for the present.  He says we don't need to be weighed down by our past, because he has taken care of it.  Forgiven it.  Redeemed it.  He says we don't need to be burdened by the future, because he has taken care of it.  Prepared it.  Promised it.  He says we don't need to live in any moment but the present because he is in charge of all our moments, and he can be trusted.  He is Provider, Sustainer, Giver, Redeemer, Savior, Friend.  The Ultimate Host.
     No wonder he says that if we don't believe in him we are condemned already.  He came to save the world, because without him we are operating in survival mode--dwelling on past scars and overwhelmed by future preoccupations, because we know the world can not be trusted.  But his message is eternal life--freeing us from our survival mode and pulling us into faith-filled living, because He can be trusted.  He throws a party so we can attend it.  So let's attend it. And let's eat--truly living this moment, because the same God who has cared for us today will continue to care for us tomorrow.  Trust him, and live.