Oh, It's You Again, Is It?

Who me? Not me.

Many years ago I lost the friendship and respect of a favorite young parishioner by mentioning in a sermon that a man had come to the rectory door the prior evening, late Saturday night. I thought he had come for food, which I was prepared to help, but after standing on the front porch listening to him for a few minutes I had sent him packing. There is nothing like judgment. Being judged, that is.

The man was tipsy and slurring that he wanted to talk about how he could stop drinking. I told him to sober up and come back and then we could talk, but not ten o’clock Saturday evening. That I never saw him again is not part of this story. Nor is it part of the story that the relationship with that parishioner was foreverafter somewhat reserved, likely in part because of my lingering memory and experience of having been judged as I thought, unfairly.

Not uncommonly set absurdly on a pedestal, a minister seems especially subject to the judgment of everybody around who hasn't worn our shoes. And those of us who have lived in a rectory, parsonage, have different experience of life than others, especially experience with the poor. More than once I have felt the guilt of Dives, the rich man in Jesus' parable at Luke 16:19-31. It would have been guilt not shame, seeing that Dives seems to have had no shame, only concern for his own thirst in the flames of Hell. 

The same people keep coming back for help again and again and again. One must observe at least minimal guidelines, rules. Some people, when you inform them you have no cash to give them but offer them a voucher for gasoline or a bag of groceries, will storm away cursing you. It's unnerving, I've had it happen. Some people are so grateful they promise to bring groceries when they get better off. I heard this promise often, though never saw the promised groceries, but when people promise it, smile kindly, they are sincere-of-the-moment and their pride is at stake. If you are a soft touch, some people see to it that word gets around, meaning traffic to your door will increase. Some people come to your door with the same sad story time after time, apparently thinking that you are a fool, as stupid as they are. With that in mind, I remember one pathetic soul who, knowing my rule was “once a week only,” came for groceries every Thursday without fail, and was startled when I started greeting her by name, she had thought she was anonymous. She was one whom I learned not to greet saying “How are you?” because her set answer was to whine “Shug, I ain’t doin’ s’ good” and then launch into complaints about her surgeries. (I was not her Shug).

Luke notwithstanding, dealing with the poor can turn almost any parish priest into a jaundiced cynic, BTDT. In one breath Jesus warns we’re going to hell like the rich man because we didn’t feed Lazarus, while in the next breath he says “the poor you will have with you always” so break open the costly nard and anoint my feet. What’s the deal, Man?

In a recent blog I featured a prairie dog begging, “Buddy, can you spare a nut?” He's back, returns in Luke's gospel this coming Sunday. The scene bothers me, especially the text. The text with the prairie dog says, “There is about this scene that makes you feel it is a cosmic moral test, the failure of which will doom your eternal soul.” This begs thought.

The cosmic moral test, the failure of which will doom your eternal soul, is not whether you hand out a nut and close the door knowing you have just encouraged him to send his buddy. The cosmic moral test is whether, in your compassion, you have the wisdom and patience to help him in such a way that he can quit begging. This is not only a social issue, it's also a moral issue, a political issue and an economics issue. But it's a test nonetheless. You get an extra ten points for not being influenced by your knowledge that he doesn’t want permanent help or to quit begging, he is content to think you won’t remember him when he knocks on your door again next Thursday.

My certainty is that I have failed the cosmic moral test by ignoring the issue and simply handing out groceries and vouchers and going back to sermon preparation. There is no end of distress in this quandry. The blessing that I am no longer a parish priest living in a rectory, parsonage, manse and calmly answering the door to a beggar several times a day, and seeing the same prairie dog at least once a week, does not remove the subtle and deadly certainty that, together with the society in which I live, in making these folks more and more dependent on me, I failed the cosmic moral test, and am as sure for damnation and hellfire as the doomed soul of Luke's gospel.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

TW+