I remember as a child taking a trip through the Indian reservation that was near my grandparents. I was surprised to see that tar-paper shacks really did exist and people lived that way in my lifetime…that it wasn’t just a piece of history I learned about in school.
I recently stopped by to drop something off for someone who lived in what, by definition, is nothing more than a flophouse. I recalled the amazement that something that I’d only read about or seen in movies or on TV really existed so close to me in my life in small-town America…and this was over forty years later.
More amazing to me was my reaction. I was introduced to all the residents, and given a tour of the property. It was obvious that these people lived a life I’ve never seen firsthand. But as much as I was saddened that someone is making a small fortune off these people “down on their luck,” I found that I had no desire to share my comfortable lifestyle with the one I was there to help. But I could come up with a list of excuses a mile long for not helping more.
That saddens me and even more, embarrasses me. Here I work with people less fortunate, cry out against others who don’t have compassion for them, and am willing to “minister” at places such as rescue missions, etc. But when I examine my own heart, I don’t have the faith to move someone in with me who has a history of making bad choices and associating with the wrong crowd. I enjoy my comfort more than I maybe should, and am maybe a little more afraid of risk than I’d like to admit.
And though I’m appreciative for the things I have, and recognize that it’s only by God’s grace that I’m not in the same situation as these people I met, I also know that my Lord and Savior didn’t even have a place to call home while He lived here. Are these people I have so much compassion for really closer to Jesus’ lifestyle than self-righteous me? Maybe, just maybe, I got a better glimpse of the Beatitudes through this person’s life than through my own.
I recently stopped by to drop something off for someone who lived in what, by definition, is nothing more than a flophouse. I recalled the amazement that something that I’d only read about or seen in movies or on TV really existed so close to me in my life in small-town America…and this was over forty years later.
More amazing to me was my reaction. I was introduced to all the residents, and given a tour of the property. It was obvious that these people lived a life I’ve never seen firsthand. But as much as I was saddened that someone is making a small fortune off these people “down on their luck,” I found that I had no desire to share my comfortable lifestyle with the one I was there to help. But I could come up with a list of excuses a mile long for not helping more.
That saddens me and even more, embarrasses me. Here I work with people less fortunate, cry out against others who don’t have compassion for them, and am willing to “minister” at places such as rescue missions, etc. But when I examine my own heart, I don’t have the faith to move someone in with me who has a history of making bad choices and associating with the wrong crowd. I enjoy my comfort more than I maybe should, and am maybe a little more afraid of risk than I’d like to admit.
And though I’m appreciative for the things I have, and recognize that it’s only by God’s grace that I’m not in the same situation as these people I met, I also know that my Lord and Savior didn’t even have a place to call home while He lived here. Are these people I have so much compassion for really closer to Jesus’ lifestyle than self-righteous me? Maybe, just maybe, I got a better glimpse of the Beatitudes through this person’s life than through my own.
No comments:
Post a Comment