I was married recently and, among other things, it afforded me the
chance to get out of the suburbs and into the heart of the city I love:
Vancouver. However, it is a move that has also left me head-fogged and
heart-twisted. For while I am encircled by the beauty of English Bay
and Stanley Park; I am also surrounded by the inescapable toll this
same city has taken on the “least of these.” Moving to Vancouver has
brought me into daily confrontation with the poor, the addicted, and
the homeless. They are a collection of beaten-down people. They live in
the alleys that define these neighborhoods. They are inescapable. And
yet they are also the whisperings of God’s Spirit to mine.
Last week, it was an addict on the sidewalk, unconscious,
trembling, and being attended to by an ambulance, a fire truck, and a
police cruiser. I walked by, thinking how unfair it is that addicts are
given free needles, when I, a diabetic, have to pay through the nose
for them. In fact, as a taxpayer, I pay for her needles, too. I thought
about the incredible drain on municipal, provincial, and federal
resources people like her are. I thought about how justified I was to
feel this way. And most of all, I thought about how little the
compassion of Christ must have penetrated my heart for me to entertain
such thoughts. It seems that poverty of spirit is as much mine as I
assume it is the addict’s, whose regrettable choices are subsidized by
my taxes. I am a petty man with a small heart, and it grieves me to
think how frivolously I regard the grace of God that has kept me from a
similar fate.
The week before, it was another woman. An addict. Another bad trip that
left her screaming, crying, wailing, half on the sidewalk, half in the
gutter. As I approached, I passed a handful of teenage girls who were
laughing at the woman, mocking her. I was angered by their indifference
to her pain. I wanted to spin on my heel and rebuke them. How dare they
treat this woman with such contempt? And then I had a moment for my own
disgrace, because I didn’t stop. I didn’t turn around. I just kept
right on walking. Past the hateful teenage girls. Past the woman in
torment. Could I have helped? What could have I done? Maybe nothing,
maybe everything. But I didn’t even try. The woman was beaten and
bruised on the road to Jericho, and there was not a Samaritan in sight.
Once again, I was ashamed.
Every day, I am met with outstretched hands, and I have trained myself
to avoid eye contact with the askers. Every day, I find a reason why I
should not give, why I cannot give. And every day, I come up with
something that sounds like justice but nothing like compassion. Isn’t
it amazing, as Bruce *censored*burn observed, how we like to see
justice done on somebody else?
I don’t have answers to the questions that my heart has been asking me
since I moved here last October. I suppose I should be glad that I am
still asking the questions and not overtaken with hardness. I am coming
closer to something resembling mercy. For example, I have pledged to
give what change I have to those who ask, and in Canada, that can be a
tidy sum. I have also pledged to smile and give the ones who ask
something more than a “no,” something closer to dignity. And I have
come to eye my own justifications with suspicion, because, if I am
honest with myself, I don’t withhold my change primarily because I am
afraid this young man will buy booze with my money. I withhold it
simply because I would rather keep the money for myself, thank you very
much. At these times, it is greed and indifference whispering to my
heart, and they wear such clever disguises.
There are as many reasons why these people roam these streets, as there
are people. Many of them are reaping what they have sown, victims of
their own pride, lust, and stubbornness. But then, so am I. We differ
only in the depth to which we have fallen and the lengths we go to hide
it. There are people on the streets with heartbreaking stories of loss
and misfortune, but I am not sure it is my job to separate the sheep
from the goats. As I have listened to God’s Spirit over the past few
months, I think I have sensed more clearly what we ought to be about.
Are we not to feed the poor and clothe the naked? Was the parable of
the sheep and the goats not fearsome enough that we still skirt these
issues with spiritual sounding excuses and talk of “responsibility”? I
don’t recall Jesus assigning us the task of determining who does and
who doesn’t really need our help. I wonder if we ought to approach
healing the sick in the same way—to heal only those we are sure won’t
use those restored limbs to beat their kids and wives, steal bread or
raise a bottle to their lips. I wonder if we should only send aid to
those developing countries whose children we know will not become
terrorists and rise up against us to threaten our culture of
consumption. As a matter of fact, forget entirely for now about what we
ought to do. The real question is, “What kind of people ought we to be?”
This is not an easy soapbox from which to preach. It is neither easy to
climb onto nor to climb off of. It is a difficult one on which to
balance. And it is one that many have stood on before me, to no avail.
But there it is all the same. It is unavoidable as I look into the
glazed-over eyes, past the hopelessness. and see in them the flicker of
the image of God. As I said, I have more questions than answers. Here
are three more of them: When was my compassion for the poor and the
self-destructive replaced by a concern for what is right and proper?
When did my own comfort become such an idol? And when did I stop
becoming my brother’s keeper?
As I wander the streets of this city, I am still searching for answers….