With that as background, may I say that I’m not entirely without Christian hospitality.
If someone approaches me and asks for money, I give it to him or her without question. I know church professionals frown on that, for the beggar will use it only to satisfy a multitude of addictions. I can’t do that. I see Jesus in that person; I can’t ask Jesus to wait, to fill out a form.
Remember Wimpy aka J. Wellington Wimpy, one of Popeye’s lovable friends? I can’t forget his immortal request. I’ll gladly pay tomorrow for a hamburger I’ll eat today. Who would give away a hamburger on that condition?
How much do I give? I dare not tell my wife, so why should I tell you, dear reader? But once, in the meanest of times, with no money in my wallet, I went to my friendly ATM and withdrew a twenty dollar bill. As I was putting it into my wallet, I was accosted by an amiable young fellow who came out of the dark. He assured me he wished me no harm; he wished only that I could help him and his family out. I opened my wallet and gave him the solitary bill. Was it a reckless act on my part? Well, yes and no. No doubt he put the Bad Andy to no good use. But that wasn’t my problem. I gave the bill to Jesus himself; he’d deal with the young man later and in his own way. By the way, I tried for another twenty from the ATM; alas, insufficient funds.
I’ve had many such momentary encounters with Jesus, but few as costly. When our financial affairs experienced an uptick, I refused to think of it as a reward for a generous act done or a sign of divine approval; it’s just something one friend would do for another.
Of course I couldn’t give money to everybody, so I limited my small largesse to those who asked. Those who didn’t ask? I still have nightmares about one fellow whom I met often. He wore somebody else’s black suit; it was ill fitting. He walked slowly dragging one leg slightly behind the other as though he had a boot on one foot and a shoe on the other.
Most often I’d meet him at 6 a.m. as I came out the Commerce, a greasy bar and grill in New Orleans that served bacon biscuits for breakfast.
I’d leave the Commerce with a paper bag carrying biscuits and coffee in one hand and an attache case in the other. I approached from one end of Common Street; he, from the other. He looked me in the eye, and his eye cried for help but he was too proud to say so. I looked him in the eye and was too dumb to read the call for help. If he’d uttered a word or muttered a sound, I’d have put my bag on the sidewalk and given him what was in my wallet, and the bag to boot. But it wasn’t to be.
Now, a dozen years later, I’m in Alexandria, 200 miles from New Orleans. I don’t know whether he’s dead or alive. But he lives on in my dreams, still limping down the sidewalks of my soul. No doubt he and his like, after the final judgment, will be in the first wave of souls into heaven. And where will I be? At the very end of the happy parade, a street sweeper with a toothless broom.
DISCLAIMER
There’s a certain glamor in spiritual hospitality, but I would be remiss and subject to liability if I didn’t warn the reader that hospitality can be dangerous to one’s physical, mental, or spiritual health. Everyday the news media broadcast an account of a good Samaritan who was tortured and killed in the middle of a hospitable act.
Pages: 1 2 3
