A Strange Sight.

Last week, I was in Boston to help launch a major project.  It was a great week and the project launch was a success.  While in Boston, we took a day to do the sights.  It was a great treat.  I saw so many places that I had only heard or read about.  I saw the Old North Church, I stood on the very location of the Boston Massacre, went to the King’s Chapel one of the oldest churches in America; I also had lunch at “Cheers” the tavern that inspired the TV sitcom. 

But one sight struck me more than any other and I don’t even know her name.  She looked extremely aged, but life as a homeless person is hard so she was most likely much younger than she looked.  She sat in a sort of corner formed by two of the sights on the “Freedom Trail”.  On one side was a great historic church, on the other side the cemetery that was the final resting place for many Revolutionary era heroes.  She appeared to be wearing most of her belongings and around her were bags and bundles of the rest of her possessions.   She absent-mindedly held out a small cup to accommodate any compassionate donations.  She had the vacant eyes that one sees in the homeless.  Perhaps she was mentally ill, maybe her mind had been ravaged by drugs and alcohol, maybe she was so wounded by rejections she had shut down or it could have been she didn’t notice the people walking by the way. They seemed not to notice her, maybe a combination of some or all of the above.

In the moment I looked at her (I wasn’t staring) her expression changed.  Recognition came over her face, her eyes widened and her expression went from passive to animated.  The expression that took over was one of fear, not shock or surprise; there was no momentary pause to make sense of the situation.  She knew exactly what was happening and it scared her.  She reached in her cup pulled out a dollar bill and held it out.  A young man approached well dressed and in his early 20’s with a nice haircut.  He walked over to her deliberately and took the dollar, said something I didn’t hear, and walked away.  He disappeared into the crowds and I lost sight of him and her as I moved on to look at the grave of a hero.

In the moment I couldn’t figure out what had just happened.  I thought that maybe I miss-saw something.  But the look on the older lady’s face was unmistakable.  Later that day my wife asked me, “Did you see...?”  I had seen correctly.  My wife put into words my own conclusion.  “I bet that was some kind of protection money she has to pay to organized crime to have permission to beg on that spot.”  My wife’s words rang true, and my heart ached, and I was angry.

That night, as I thought about what I saw I wanted to launch a crusade, one middle- aged small town preacher from the deep south against organized crime in a big northeastern city.  I wanted someone to write a law, but there are probably laws on the books, another law will not help.  I wanted to find the young mafia muscle and tell him if he wanted to extort someone he ought to try it with a Marine or a Navy Seal, but what would that accomplish?  I wondered if the city fathers of Boston knew they had a problem in which the powerless were oppressed by the powerful?

But as often happens the question turned a little philosophical.  Where was the faith that believed that God had a better plan for her life, a faith that would allow her to move beyond that stuck spot?  Where was the hope that would grow out of that faith, and would manifest itself in joy and confidence?  Where was the love of God for this poor little lady?  The irony of this woman sitting between the church and the graveyard was not lost on my reflections.  I was frustrated that this great American city, that this grand church, could and would leave this woman to sit there and be compelled to pay protection money to a thug.  Where was the good news for this woman?

It was inside the person who watched this all take place. 

There are heroic people doing urban ministry and doing it well.  But if I am the hands, the feet, and the voice of Jesus, in that moment, I didn’t do much in that role.  I watched this lady, I watched this interchange, I watched this crime and I did nothing.  I am not sure what I could have done.  Replaced the dollar taken from her?  Prayed with her?  Told her that a Savior is coming and that He will set all things right?  None of those would have amounted to a real solution, but that might have had some impact, certainly more than doing nothing.   

I really don’t know how Jesus would do urban ministry today.  For that matter I’m not sure how Jesus would do sub-urban ministry, rural ministry or cross cultural ministry today.  Christianity has been practiced in that area of the world for about 400 years and it seems that the Kingdom has not yet come on earth as in Heaven.

Here is the conviction that has settled on me as I reflect on what I saw on the streets of Boston.  Ministry, whatever the location on context, has to be personal.  A passing tourist might be able to pray, give a little, or offer words of good news, which is what I should have done.  But real and lasting impact is impossible without a consistent human touch.  That was the point of the Incarnation.  What do you suppose the percentage of 12 people to the whole human population would have been in Jesus’ day?  Jesus invested deeply in a dozen people.  Beyond the twelve there were 70, and beyond that, there were larger numbers, but it appears their contact with Jesus was much more limited.  Jesus’ primary connection was with twelve people He drew close to Himself.  His relationship with them was much more deep and intimate than that of a casual tourist just visiting.  In the New Testament, two things we never see is the lone Christian ministry, or the ministry where a leader only relates to the masses in mass. 

I hope there is someone in a caring relationship with that homeless woman that loves her into a relationship with Jesus.  Someone who is a lot more like Jesus than I was that day.

In the Cause of Christ

Charlie