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Luke 6:20-23
Luke 6:20 Then he looked up at his disciples and said: "Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Luke 6:21 "Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. "Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. Luke 6:22 "Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. Luke 6:23 Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for that is what their ancestors did to the prophets.
I don’t hate this job … not really. It’s just that I have been forced to make a confession, one which appears to be at odds with that person who, at least on my better days, I aspire to be. You see, though it deeply grieves me to say it, I find that I am forced to admit that I have become an administrator. Yes, it’s true. On most days I find myself shuffling paper, moving it from one dwelling place to the next, from one file drawer to another file drawer and then when I’m lucky, moving it into the brown round receptacle with the dark green stripes which stays tucked away under my desk. Administrator … me. Tragic, but the reality of my existence.
But please understand, this is not how I intended things to be. Thus, every-so-often I have to escape -- escape I tell you, escape from the mountains of paper that crush my spirit and clamor for my soul -- escape from my second floor ivory tower office and make my way down to the first floor where the ministry of this place happens, where needs are met and the promise of a God’s presence is proclaimed, where joy is sometimes discovered and life is restored. Escape.
It was during such a time when I found myself standing in our reception area listening to a young mother, standing there with her small child in tow, their dirty jeans and ragged shoes giving away the essence of their existence, an existence which I’m sure would have welcomed mounds of paper and a small paycheck at the end of each month, a bit of order amidst the chaos. Their story was so typical of the many who come through these doors – hungry, no husband, little education, little hope – traveling from Florida to New York or New York to Florida, traveling for the possibility that maybe, just maybe there in that other place there might be another life, a life with a future, a life which stands outside of the realm of death. And though it seemed like only a small thing, one small action which would not drastically affect the direction or the scope of their reality, we offered up that which we had, we offered up some food. They would leave here but at least they would not leave hungry.
I made my way back to our food pantry, certainly not a place with much aesthetic worth, located in the rear of our old building, the food pantry with it’s battered shelves and cardboard boxes which somehow always seemed to make themselves into a cluttered pile. Yet, standing in the doorway of the small tightly packed room, stuffed with cans of vegetables, boxes of noodles, and bags of rice and flour, standing and looking in at the hundreds of items which others had brought from their shelves, I knew that this was holy ground. This was a place, which at least on a small scale, was a place that stood as the last barrier against an evil that would steal the life of a dirty little boy in tattered jeans. Holy ground.
I began to pull cans off the shelves and put them into a large brown cardboard box, two cans of diced pears, several cans of pork-n-beans, a large bag of grits, a container of noodles, and all manner of other assorted foods, filling the box to brim. Though it wasn’t a large box, not really – the box of food for the exhausted family sitting in our reception area. As I walked back to the front of the building I found myself looking into that box and thinking about the contents. Beans … not much excitement here. Beans. The kind of food which I always find in my cupboards, the kind of food with is the necessity of life. A box of beans for a battered family.
I joined the young woman and her child and I carried the box out to her waiting car. I looked at this beat-up dilapidated piece of rusting machinery and wondered how in the world they were ever going to make their destination. It looked even more exhausted than the mother, even with her deeply lined face, lines which should not be etched into a face that was so young. I opened the rear door and it moaned a loud protest of metal on metal, hinges screeching in their need for grease. I leaned across the back seat, into the car which had now become an oven, and set the box on top of long tears, gaping holes out of which the foam escaped and fell into little piles of shredded rubber onto the sandy floor below.
Just as I was about to pull myself back into the cooler air beyond the rusting hulk, I glanced up and saw the small child looking into the rear window. I could see his face just above the edge of the door, eyes wide, as he stared into the brown box full of beans. He slowly turned to his mother and in a voice of bewilderment, he excitedly whispered, “Mommy! Mommy, is this all for us?! Is this all for us?!” She quickly shhssshhed him, being embarrassed by her circumstance, being embarrassed by her need.
And my heart broke. For here I stood, in unquestionably the wealthiest nation the earth has ever known, here I stood in a land which produces enough to feed not only it’s own people but all the hungry people in the world, here I stood in a land where we proudly proclaim our worship of the one who comes to give not just life but life abundantly, here I stood before a little boy who looked into a box of beans and thought that it was the greatest gift he had ever received … and maybe it was.
And Jesus looked at his disciples and said: Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.
I stood in the dusty parking lot and through the tears in my eyes, I watched them drive away, on to New York or Florida or some other place where there might be a possibility of new life, on to that day of goodness which, for them, will probably never come. As I returned to my mountains of paper, I found myself asking God for forgiveness, forgiveness for my sin of neglect, forgiveness for my sin of apathy in this land of plenty.
But at least, there were the beans. Thank God for the beans. Thank God for the beans.
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