Who's My Neighbor? Part 2

“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”

—James 1:27

My last entry seems to have struck a chord. I had requests to reprint it, and I know it was well forwarded. My conclusion is that others are struggling with the call to serve the poor as much as I am.

It’s baffling to me that I heard nothing on this discussion while I was growing up. Like everyone else, when the Sally Struthers commercials came on—the children always seemed to have runny noses and flies buzzing around them—my family quickly switched the channel. I don’t remember hearing a single sermon on taking care of the poor, though probably if I had, I would have assumed it applied to someone else.

As a senior at UCLA, I took a class called Intellectual History of the 20^th century and heard the term “social gospel” for the first time. (Isn’t “social gospel” a redundant term? What is the gospel if not social?) Interesting, because I’d spent the two previous years at a Christian college. There we had been encouraged to go on missions trips, but again, I always thought that was for other people, for those who planned to actually be missionaries. I guess I believed there were enough people in the world caring for the poor—Mother Teresa did it so well—so why did I need to be involved? I had other gifts God would use.

My sense is that evangelicals today are paying more attention to James 1:27 and others like it but are stuck in how to implement it. I know I am. How exactly do you find widows and orphans, and what does it mean to look after them? Who exactly are the “needy” we’re supposed to be kind to? Aren’t we all “needy” in some way? Does kindness mean a smile? A ten-dollar bill? A cheeseburger? The offer of a shower and some clean clothes? (And how does one offer that with a car full of kids?) How do the Bible’s commands translate to the guy sitting outside Walmart with a tin can and a sign asking for money? The first things that come to my mind in that situation are personal responsibility and enabling dependency. How very American of me. It seems like one thing to love and support my Compassion kid in Ethiopia, and a different thing entirely to love the man at Walmart. But does God see them the same?

I have no answers. I’m just trying to learn. I’m trying to step outside my comfort zone occasionally and attach names, faces, and stories to the term “the poor.” I’m not talking about hundreds. I’m talking about a paltry few. It doesn’t seem like enough. I like taking action and seeing fast results. I’m learning to settle for hard conversations, multiple frustrations, and the rare ah-ha moment.

What I know for sure is this: God’s commands to “spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry” and “defend the cause of the poor,” list no exceptions. Not for those publishing Christian books, not for those who lead Awana at their church, not even for harried moms raising children. The commands are for us all, regardless of our stage in life or our busy schedules. These commands are for me, and I’ve got to figure out what to do with them.

Who's My Neighbor?

“Whoever is kind to the needy honors God.” —Proverbs 14:31

Last Sunday was a study in contrasts. Watching the tribute to America that preceded the Superbowl, I teared up at the reading of the constitution. Watching Colin Powell and others recite the premises on which our nation is founded, I was filled with patriotism, pride, and hope. What a great country!

Just a few hours earlier, while doing my pre-game grocery shopping, this was not what I was thinking. I wonder if Colin Powell has ever been to the Platte Avenue Walmart?

I’m pretty sure it’s my least favorite place on earth. By its standards, I should be a grandma. It seems that every tattooed, pierced 20-year-old in the store is toting a kid or two, and usually they’re shouting at them. I have seen men proposition women in the produce aisle. (I’m not kidding.) Nearly every time I go I am asked for money in the parking lot by some man who has his every possession strapped to his back.

So why do I go there? Because this is where the poor hang out, and God says whoever is kind to the needy honors Him. So I go to be kind. I don’t preach on the sidewalks or talk about Jesus with everyone I see, but I try to be kind. That may sound noble, but not when you hear what’s going on inside my head. Inside, I’m whining and judging and sinning all over the place. It’s so much easier to love the abstract poor than the real poor.

These are a few of the questions—stumbling blocks, really—that occur to me as I stand in line at Walmart, listening to my “neighbors” discuss the tattooes of previous lovers they wish they could get rid of:

• Are these people really even “the poor”? They’re hauling out TVs nicer than I’ll ever own, and their cell phones look like they require an engineering degree. Are you sure these are the people I’m supposed to love, God?

• It’s so much easier to care for the poor in Africa or India. Can’t I just send a check and keep shopping at Safeway?

• Are we really fighting wars to protect the liberties of these people? So they can have babies at 15 and fill up on medical marijuana and cover their bodies in pornography? Is this really my America? Are these people really my neighbors? Do I really have to care about them?

But God’s answer is clear: “Command those who are rich in this present world [and yes, that’s me, even though my pockets are filled with coupons and I put back the raspberries that were just too expensive] not to be arrogant [judging and condemning, in other words]. . . . Command them to do good, to be rich in good deeds, and to be generous and willing to share. In this way they will lay up treasure for themselves as a firm foundation for the coming age, so that they may take hold of the life that is truly life.”

In other words, yes, these are your neighbors that you should love as yourself, yes these are the needy, and yes, I expect you to be kind and generous with them. God gave this command millennia ago, but even then He had the Platte Avenue Walmart in mind.

Messy Thoughts on Messy Business

Late-night thoughts on parenting after a taxing, too-long day:

You grow up hearing that parenting is the hardest job in the world. Then you decide, “Well how hard could it be?” and you decide to try it for yourself. And you get to start out with this cute little baby, and sure it’s hard and he cries a lot and sleeps at the wrong time of day, but he really is cute and he seems to think you’re pretty amazing, so you decide this is so wonderful that you’ll have another. And it gets a lot harder because the needs seem to have tripled instead of just doubled, but you’re still managing and having a reasonably good time. Then one day you become arrogant and foolish enough to believe that you really know what you’re doing and that you’re actually good at this, and so you keep going and end up finding yourself with four. You’re exhausted and crabby and overwhelmed, but you have big dreams and a family mission statement that get you out of bed every day to face a new challenge, to teach your great lessons, to impart your great wisdom. And you do this day after day after day after day, only to wonder if anyone at all is listening to you and is there some great conspiracy among them that keeps them from getting the dirty clothes in the laundry basket and the clean ones in the drawer? And no matter how much you threaten, discipline, reward, reason, plead, the same ugly character issues keep popping up again and again, which only serves to remind you of your own ugly character issues, thank you very much. And even though you love spending time with each of them one on one and you see new things about them each time and you finally catch a glimpse of some long-hoped-for maturity, it disappears the minute they’re all together again, and besides those days are very few and very far between because you’re stretched so thin and time goes so quickly. And why is it that no matter how much you preach grace as the highest value in your home and despite the fact that your children have collectively memorized more verses than a room full of chanting monks, they can still be so rude, unkind, and downright awful to one another? And it makes you understand the deprivation of man (and women and children) more than any childless seminary student ever could. And when you finally get to the point where you can get in the car without someone crying about something, you find that your car is now full of pouty preteens who didn’t get their way last Tuesday and are still holding a grudge. And though you say you’ll never eat dinner in front of the TV, you do, and though you passionately crusade against entitlement culture, you find its most articulate disciples sitting at your own table demanding more dessert. And though deep down in your heart of hearts you don’t want to be the mother who screeches at her children for going out of the house with uncombed hair, you become that anyway, in spite of yourself, because no matter how vehemently you deny it, you really do seem to care what other people think of your family. And you keep thinking, “But I have the easy kids—the ones with no recurrent illnesses, no learning disabilities, no ADHD or attachment disorder. So why doesn’t this feel easier?” Then you remember that thing about parenting being the hardest job in the world and you agree and you end up feeling like you’re failing a good amount of the time. But then you get their report cards that praise their character just as much as their school performance, or some random parent sends you a message commending some deed they saw committed by the child you’d almost given up on, and tears come to your eyes and you thank God and you find the strength to get up one more morning, to pick up one more dirty sock from the floor, to give out one more consequence in hopes that someone is learning something from it, to give one more hug, to be available for one more conversation that you hope and pray will by some miracle lead to some life-altering growth in this young life that has been entrusted to your care.