Having served churches in and around the urban core for many years, I have become hardened to the various hard-luck stories that have come my way. More than once, I believed someone and gave them money, only to have them show back up at church a few hours later, their breath reeking of what my money had purchased. I have been burned enough times that I decided I am not a very good judge of human character. Rather than buy alcohol and drugs for whoever has the best story, my default setting has been to not help anyone.
In this church and my previous church, the office staff handles the requests for assistance. There are guidelines that they utilize. When someone seeking assistance gets me instead of the office staff, I refer them back out to the people that can actually help them.
Until today. I first saw the woman’s face as I was in a pastoral conversation with someone else in the sanctuary. She was clearly lost, trying to find her way into the mostly-locked church building. There were tears on her face as she asked if there was a prayer service going on somewhere in the church. Failing that, she asked where the office was. I directed her there as I finished my conversation, but I knew that she and I would end up talking. Sure enough, she was waiting for me when I returned to my office.
I’ve heard it all. I’ve been lied to by the best. I can’t define why her story was so compelling for me. Her face was kind. She didn’t talk about faith in the way that people do when they want something from a preacher. She didn’t exhibit signs of substance abuse. Or maybe it did not have entirely to do with her. On this sunny autumn day, I am so blessed in so many ways. My car runs, my health is fine, I have a job I love. I know where I’m going to sleep tonight, and with whom. So spending my birthday check on a woman who might get a little closer to those things because of my gift makes a certain kind of sense.
At least, I hope so. Ultimately, hope is all I have to give.
