At 10:30 a.m., we opened the doors, prayed a blessing, and passed out lunches. My first day on my volunteer job, I was astonished by the poverty of the people — mostly men, mostly mentally ill, mostly homeless — living mere miles from my cozy home. As they accepted their food, most politely greeted me, thanked me. Several said, “God bless you.” Most did not make eye contact with me, but some smiled. And in their smiles I thought I caught a glimpse of the smile of Jesus Christ, who in no uncertain terms called us to care for the poor.
After a few weeks, I began to recognize many of those in the food line’s faces, and I learned some of their names, their stories. Sure, I had contributed money to Church ministries and charitable organizations before, but I had never felt the dirty but warm hand of a man who slept winter nights beneath the bumper of a car. I had never looked closely at the holes in the toes of an elderly woman’s boots as she shuffled through snow.
At first, I feared I might be incapable of connecting with people who were unwashed, smelly, disheveled, sometimes drunk or drugged. But I quickly realized that these people are more like me than different. They’re not thrilled with baloney, but like Peanut M & Ms. A couple of regulars brought their beloved dogs. These people, too, have dreams and — despite their plight — a sense of humor.
One sub-zero February day, for example, I shivered in the alley talking with a man who had survived on the streets for years.
“Cold,” I commented, trying to make conversation, my teeth chattering.
“Ma’am,” he said, “it’s colder than a brass toilet seat on the shady side of an iceberg.”
Together, warmly, we laughed. Then, showing me his ski mittens he had received as a Christmas gift from a parish Jesse Tree, he said, “Somebody out there cares for me.”
In that instant, I hoped the person who had contributed those mittens understood the hope they had given.
But lately in Denver, compassion for disadvantaged people seems to ebb. One glorious September afternoon, I bicycled the Platte River Greenway farther than usual. Toward the end of the trail, I noticed the ranks of runners, Rollerbladers and cyclists thinned while the population of people who are homeless increased. I noticed folks hanging out in groups along the banks, sleeping alone under bridges, bathing in the river. I noticed ragged, washed clothes spread on bushes to dry.
And I noticed a chilling sign of the times. A “Bump Ahead” road sign had been altered, the letter “p” painted over to read “Bum Ahead.”
How heartbreaking to see such obvious contempt, I thought, and how callous the person who had perpetrated such a prank. I pictured some heartless soul pedaling by on a mountain bike that probably cost more money than these people had seen in years. I imagined the person painting and then having a laugh — nothing like the hearty laugh I’d shared with the fellow in the food line.
The following week, I heard that Denver’s Catholic Worker soup kitchen not only had been forced to move from one location, but that the city has also served the newly located soup kitchen with a cease-and-desist order.
And today’s paper reported news of a series of “transients” murdered downtown.
I can’t get my mind around such utter hatred for the poor. On the other hand, since I left the food line, I have not felt that I am actively enough demonstrating love of the poor. Too many of us could stand accused of this complacent mediocrity.
Recently on assignment in Los Angeles, I interviewed an inner-city priest. “We don’t have to wait until poor people ask us for help when we know they need it,” he said. “Sometimes God gives us help when we haven’t even asked.”
I’m now asking myself what more I can do for the poor. And I’m reminding myself and others — perhaps even you — that, regarding poverty, there but for the grace of God go we.
