Needy

 “Helping the poor” is not as glamorous as it sounded pre-doing it.

When the need was always ‘out there’ it became easy to romanticize the needy—pure-hearted Cinderellas trapped by their wicked relatives and dealt a crappy hand in life. This fantasized version of the poor only got perpetuated when ‘helping’ became hearing a few well-rehearsed sob-stories and handing out a meal here and there--keeping me feeling sorry for people (without being sure who to blame) while tricking myself into thinking how generous I must be for my few-dollar fast food purchase… all the while leaving the perpetual hunger behind.

But come back to that same street corner, and there will always be another plea--another meal, another pair of shoes, another bus fare, another… you name it. The needs are endless. Don’t you know I fed you yesterday!? Why are you hungry again today?!? I sense my resentment building for the human hunger that marks us all--the hunger that’s easy to hide when we’re constantly feeding.

And so, since I’ve fed and have more than enough to share, I go back to that street corner. I go back to that beggar who doesn’t look at me and see me but a wallet or ‘free’ entertainment. Yeah, I’m pretty, but I’m not offering you eye-candy or a play toy! (Since I’m not Jesus, I often suck at the whole ‘compassion’ thing). I am praying for compassion, though, I have to. When that street corner becomes a part of your life instead of just a magical mission trip, the labor of love can start feeling more like a chore. And when love begins to feel like a chore, it’s hard to see the people behind the needs--their perceived needs that is.

Because I know what their need is, and it’s not a sandwich. Though that’s a start. It’s not ‘fun’. I’m all about games, but soccer and some of my impromptu dance parties never takes them off the streets. It’s certainly not sex. Even though they already do enough of that--popping out babies and running away from them. None of that works to satisfy their hunger, and none of that works to satisfy ours either. It’s just easier to see from our perspective when they are the ones without a pocketbook and a glue-bottle shoved in their face.

But no matter how many times I tell them that there is something better out there--a place where we offer food, shelter, family--they just keep huffing and asking for toothpaste (someone always stole theirs). They even know about Jesus--though they do know the right Christian songs to play on their speakers (don’t ask me where they got them) as the white people walk past. They may even go to church and feel good for an hour every Sunday when they hear they’re loved. But do they believe it? If they never make any changes it sure doesn’t seem like it.

So why keep going back to that street corner?

“If a kid came into Micah, graduated, got a job, had a successful life, but never accepted Jesus, would all of it have been worth it?” a Micah-grad asks me on the roof of the Timothy House as we look down upon the city.

Pointing towards ‘El Centro’ where I just visited our typical street crew, I respond, “Even if those kids on the street never even enter the Micah house. Even if they spend their whole life on the streets and die there--never having accepted Jesus--it would still be worth it.”

The grad looks at me, puzzled, as if I didn’t hear his question. He repeats. So do I:

“We don’t love only if we know we’ll be loved back. Jesus didn’t. In fact, he knew Judas would betray him, and he loved him anyway. All the way to the end.”

So why keep going back to that street corner?

Because Jesus did it for me--I’m just as poor as they are. And thankfully the Lord doesn’t look at us with disgust--giving a few bucks to pacify us like filthy, intrusive beggars. Instead, he steps right into our need--our true need--and fills it. He gave 5000 bread then offered the Bread of Life. He asked for a drink then offered the Living Water. Jesus just gave. The sun just shines. The rain just rains. The sun doesn’t wait to see if the soil is ready before it comes up. It comes up. The rain doesn’t pick which land to fall on, it falls. And yes, I hope and pray that there are seeds buried behind all the dirt, but whether or not I ever see a flower sprout--and I hope I will--I will keep going back to that street corner.

Why?

Because Jesus did it for me. He still does.