Will Work For More Compassion

© David Hartman

Many years ago, fresh out of college and without a job, I spent a couple of afternoons standing on the corner of one of Oklahoma City's busiest intersections holding a sign that read: "Will work for state fair tickets." It was a publicity stunt for the State Fair of Oklahoma, one for which I was paid $40 for each afternoon, if I recall. Not bad coin for a half-day's work back then.

While no motorists stopped to offer me state fair tickets, a real job, or even some spare change, the fair got exactly the publicity it hoped for. Within a few hours, I was mentioned on local radio stations. By the end of the first afternoon, a photographer from the state's largest newspaper had snapped my picture.

It worked back then because at that time, street-corner beggars with their "will work for food" placards were few and far between. Today, you can't stop at a light at any busy intersection in Oklahoma City without encountering at least one person with a hand extended.

It's been interesting to watch the evolution of street-corner begging over the last several years. In the past, these folks usually would have some kind a prop like a crutch, or a bedroll to make you think they were sleeping wherever they could find a place. And the signs always told a story. A veteran down on his luck. A lost job and hungry kids. A disease with no insurance to pay for treatment.

Today's street-corner beggars don't even bother with the props. The signs no longer offer explanations -- or offers to work in exchange for money/food/gas, for that matter. Although I did see one a couple of weeks ago where the sign said something along the lines of "Need fuel for spaceship takeoff 12-21-2012" which I assume was in reference to the newest fad end-of-the-world date. But those are the exception, not the rule. Today's formula is simpler. Like "Need Help, God Bless You" or "Jesus Loves You."

They love to play the religion card. Mix a little Jesus in there and the Christians in the Bible Belt will feel guilty. More than that, they'll roll down their windows to offer greenbacks. At times, I've been known to resent the playing of the Jesus card. Something inside me predisposes me to not want to give you money if you're not at least willing to tell me why you need it. Too often, I keep that window rolled up tight.

And that's why the gospels are such a slap in the face sometimes -- a lens through which I neither want to see or be seen. I've read through the gospels many times. When Jesus teaches about giving, he doesn't teach about giving responsibly. He doesn't teach generosity after judgment. He never asks me to evaluate the situation first. You can look for it in the red letters, but you won't find it.

Christians like to cling to Paul's teaching in 2 Thessalonians 3:10, loosely translated "if a man won't work, he shouldn't eat" as justification for turning a blind eye when justification would come in handy. The problem, of course, is the context. Paul is specifically talking about how believers should treat other idle, wicked believers. To use the passage to justify believers holding those outside the faith to the same standard takes the teaching out of context.

And it forces me to wrestle with the question: Which is more likely to tick Jesus off? Giving what isn't mine, but God's anyway (my money) to a con artist who will blow it on a bottle of Mad Dog, or not giving to someone truly in need because I've been played before and might be played again? I know that answer. Too many passages about cups of water and pairs of jeans and visits and angels in disguise and grass in the fields and birds in the air and barns of treasures and moths, rust and thieves to get that answer wrong.

Guess I've still got some more growing and giving to do.

Dirty Laundry, Revisited (Again)

© David Hartman

      Following is a December, 2009 entry from my very short-lived blog, "Grace Thru Faith." Since I haven't posted here in awhile and since this post sadly still is relevant, I thought I'd offer it here.

     She wasn’t wearing a bra to the party. I reckon I should be embarrassed to say that’s what first caught my attention.

     What she did wear that mid-December day was a thin t-shirt. Many stains and much wear from new, the once-white garment now wouldn’t pass even for off-white. Closer to beige, really. Sitting a table near mine at this community celebration of Christmas, she was flanked by noisy, impatient children who just wanted the meal to pass so Santa would come.

     She was one of the guests of honor at the event. She and more than a hundred other folks from this low-income community north and east of Oklahoma City were gathered that day for a Christmas lunch, followed by gifts for the children. The party was a joint effort culminating the generosity of dozens of families and volunteers, spearheaded by a remarkable old lady who understands how God has blessed her life — a woman who has mastered turning gratitude into passion, passion into action.

     After the meal, the dozens of anxious children would get their gifts. Large, wrapped boxes with new clothes, new shoes and new coats. No hand-me-downs today. And new toys.

     So the woman’s wardrobe choice for this special event bothered me. Fifteen years later, I still can see that thin, dirty t-shirt like it was yesterday.

     I was there as a reporter, an impartial observer to this incredible act of kindness toward folks more often overlooked than embraced by society. But I wasn’t really impartial. I was indignant, almost angry.

     All this work, I thought. The months of planning and soliciting donations and the hundreds of volunteer hours that surely went into turning this dream into a good, filling hot meal and a big box of presents for her kids, and this broad can’t even bother to throw on a bra and a clean t-shirt for the party.

     I remembered that t-shirt today because frankly I don’t think I can ever forget it. Not because of the stains or for what wasn’t worn underneath. It’s a symbol that reminds me of the moment I realized how little I resemble Jesus.

     Her dirty shirt disturbed me because before I left home, I chose from one of several clean, pressed dress shirts to wear to the assignment. Around my collar dangled one of the dozen or more neckties that clutter an entire dresser drawer.

     But what if?

     What if, judging her from my comfortable, middle-class perspective, I actually misjudged her? What if the woman didn’t really pick the rattiest rag she had to wear to the party? Maybe she wore it because it was the nicest thing she had.  Is it possible she didn’t wear a bra that day because she didn’t have one? This was an event to help needy folks, after all. What did I know about how “needy” feels?

     Just maybe  she really was as humiliated to be seen in public as I thought she should be. And maybe she came anyway because well, they’re her children, and this was a Christmas she couldn’t otherwise give them.

     I remembered that party today during my Plan-B lunch. Grilled chicken breast and potato-bacon soup. Lunch was going to be my leftover Mazzio’s Pepperolis, which I brought to work in the takeout pizza box and put in the company fridge. You buy Pepperolis by the dozen. Six were last night’s supper, the other six would be today’s lunch.

     During my morning break, I went to the fridge to sneak one of my six Pepperolis, just to tide me over. But there were only four in the box. Someone enjoyed the other two without asking. At lunchtime, I went back for the remaining three. The box was empty.

     At first, it ticked me off. I called the thieves unsavory names under my breath. Steal a lunch, get caught, get fired. I plotted revenge. That bottle of habanero powder I keep in the cupboard could set a nice trap, I schemed. Wait a few days, leave some more Pepperolis dusted generously with habanero powder in a box in the fridge…and wait.

     But sometime during that chicken breast, I remembered the t-shirt. By my standards, the last year has been lean. I was fired in March, spent months unemployed, and when I did get another job, it wasn’t at the pay grade I believe my years in the work force should dictate. Yet never have I been close to having to steal in order to eat. Maybe my lunch really was taken by some punks working the system like I want to believe. Or maybe it was taken by someone who really needed something to eat and had nothing. Regardless, I had eight bucks and change in my pocket, more than enough to buy another lunch better than the one taken from me. I won’t be hungry today, even for a few hours.

     The t-shirt and now the chicken breast are reminders. They warn me that I still don’t see other people and situations the same way Jesus does. Too often I want to believe the worst about people. I want to ignore that there are so many who would give anything to have the “problems” I face.

     God help me.