Anecdotal Evidence: `That Brown-Bagged Bottle, Pride'

Anecdotal Evidence: `That Brown-Bagged Bottle, Pride'
Excerpt:
His cardboard sign was terse: “Homeless Vet.” The real pitch was his demeanor – cocked head and steady, passive-aggressive gaze. It said: “I’m like you. How can you resist?”

I resisted. Bill Vallicella has covered this thoroughly, but still I feel unsettled. I’m not cheap. My instincts tell me to help a friend or deserving stranger. However, I’m suspicious not only of the beggar but of myself...
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My Note: Until the past three years I would say that this particular view of the facet of light hitting the truth diamond would be mine. From the moment the homeless black woman rested her head on my shoulder in St. Patrick's Cathedral and sighed, I can only relate that I am forever changed. I wrote about the incident in my post, St. Patrick's Church, earlier. The Poor Christ shadows all of us, all the time, especially in these times of hardship. The saints have always known this. Take St. Faustina. Christ came to her, you know---a Sister of MERCY---in the form of a poor beggar hungry. She took him in and fed him. Christ then appeared to her, pleased. He had been the beggar.
I had a negative experience with a beggar in Dallas but I understood why he did what he did. Who are we to 'demand' social etiquette from those in such wild loneliness, fear and pain? So what if that one beggar might take advantage of us? Maybe he or she was flinging all they had out there just to get one scrap that day. Remember Lazarus?
We are 'suspicious not only of the beggar but of' ourselves because in an instant that beggar can be us and that makes us terribly afraid. I was again sharply reminded of this in Spokane when I was confronted by Timothy on the steps of the locked Church. I can only say that I have since been cloaked in a kinship with him that is hard not only to confront but to accept and understand. I just know Timothy at that moment was Jesus.
It was his birthday and he wanted to go home to see his ill mother. I knew that her prayers had sent me to that locked Church that morning. I had never been there before. Just at that moment? I fed him, comforted him, hugged him and listened to his longing to be loved and accepted, such affairs of the heart we take so much for granted. His face was swollen from beatings the night before. He shivered from sleeping on the concrete floor of the shelter. He was hungry because he had not eaten in three days. He had no money. He had gone to the only place left holding a tiny thread of hope---the steps of Christ's Church. It is spiritually daunting to realize and live in a moment when "He came unto His own and they received Him not." I was no saint then, no better. Perhaps for a little while I allowed the Holy Spirit to whirlwind me across the frightening line we draw in order to embrace, to care about a ravaged human being quietly whimpering, yet screaming, to be held by his mother again. A mother whose prayers wrapped my ravaged soul, too.
That frightening line is the convenient scapegoatism that I abhor and fight with such passion. We all live in the same city. There is no difference between us. Most people reject that true fact. I learned long ago that all of us exist at the Foot of the Cross because there Christ sees each of us as we really are inside and out.
Our Church says to us: "When one suffers in the Body of Christ, we all suffer." That must give us pause and remind us that Christ commands us to love one another. ["A new commandment I give you. Love one another as I have loved you."] We are 'to comfort the suffering!' 'Go, learn what this means! I desire MERCY not sacrifice! I am humble and meek of Heart. Yes HE is. Timothy reached over and comforted me.