Breakfast with Royalty
Sometimes we set out to help another person, only to discover that we're the ones being given a gift. This reflection explores what happens when we look beyond someone's circumstances and make room for genuine human connection.
The blog article follows this announcement!
Don't miss the November 8th SMC event:
Creating from the Soul: A Conversation in Story & Song with Javier Mendoza (aka Hobo Cane)
“The combo of music, meditation, input, and cheering was delightful, as well as the food that was prepared for us!” – SMC Event Attendee
Breakfast with Royalty
I don’t spend much time in downtown Saint Louis. Paul does. He lives there. We encountered one another in front of the spot where I protest on most Friday mornings as immigrants file past for their monthly check-ins. I brought a sign with me. So did he. In four-inch letters, mine read,
“When
I
Was a stranger,
You welcomed me.”
(Matthew 25:35)
Like the families filing past me on Fridays, Paul is exactly the sort of person that my sign was meant to reference. After all, his sign was scrawled on a dirty piece of cardboard. It read, “Anything you can do will help.” When we met each other, we were both in our work clothes. I wore a tie. His clothes were tie-dyed with layers of topsoil accumulated from overnights in abandoned buildings and downtown city parks.
Heaven’s Citizenship Test
If you take the time to read the entire passage from which I lifted the quote on my sign, you’ll see that it reads like a citizenship test to get into Heaven (Matthew 25: 31-46). “When I was hungry, did you give me to eat?” “When I was a stranger, did you welcome me?” The way it reads, your answer will determine whether or not you will join the “sheep” — sorted to the “right” — destined for the Kingdom of Jesus’ Father. A “No” answer to Heaven’s Citizenship questions, according to Matthew 25, results in the “goat” designation (not G.O.A.T.). The goats are steered to “the left” and herded off to that other place (i.e., hell).
By my reckoning, this scriptural passage is meant to place a full-length mirror in front of people like me, who think of themselves as following a spiritual pathway. Within its 16-verse framework, a believer can get a pretty good look at the distance between the person they imagine themselves to be and the real person that exists in a world constructed of both sacred and profane elements.
I’ve always been persuaded by C.S. Lewis’ logic when it comes to the concept of hell. Like Meister Eckhart and Julian of Norwich, of old, he believed that if there is a place called “hell” — reserved for the “goats” of history — God has already redeemed its residents and emptied it out, or is on the way to emptying it. As such, my motivation for answering Heaven’s Citizenship test, as a “sheep” -ish Christian, has nothing to do with avoiding hellfire, and everything to do with recognizing royalty when I see it. The poor, the alien, the prisoner, the vulnerable — each and every one of them is a powerful manifestation of the Christ. That makes them royalty.
On a summer’s morning, in late August, I was given eyes to see that I was standing in the presence of royalty. Everything about this gentle, humble man named “Paul” affirmed his nobility. He agreed to have breakfast with me. Unfortunately, the nearest breakfast restaurant required a several-block hike. He tried to hide it, but our walk was causing him pain, and the pain was causing a limp. I could only imagine what lay beneath that shoddy footwear by way of socks and foot wounds.
Breakfast with Royalty
When we got to Chris’ breakfast restaurant, it was clear to the both of us that we weren’t getting into that place with the stains on his white T-shirt. So I removed my tie and folded it into my pocket. My daughter, Lizzie, has been known to pilfer night shirts out of my closet. After Paul finished buttoning up, it occurred to me that my shirt fit his small frame about the same way it would fit Lizzie.
As we entered the pancake house, the enticing incense of smoked breakfast meat and fresh coffee woke up our salivary glands. As we took our seats, I noted that Paul’s brown eyes were gentle and true. Over them, clouds of salt-and-pepper hair billowed out from under his baseball cap. Those clouds overhead were replicated on a face that hadn’t seen a razor, since at least, the last presidential administration.
Despite his high blood pressure, Paul couldn’t resist ordering his childhood favorite: biscuits and high-sodium gravy. His poor dental health wouldn’t allow for anything from the al dente side of the menu (i.e., bacon, sausage, ham, toast). Those biscuits, saturated in milk gravy, escorted the both of us back to a seat at his childhood table for a heaping helping of comfort. He assured me that these biscuits were only a shadow of his mom’s kitchen handiwork. And yet, this reminder of her home cooking had the effect of opening up this usually solitary, quiet man. His voice was softer than the biscuits on his plate. What words I couldn’t scoop up with my ears, I intently read with my eyes, as I studied his gravy-stained lips.
A Saint Louis Story
In answer to my question, Paul informed me that he grew up in Saint Louis’ infamous Pruitt-Igoe public housing high-rise. Just the mention of that failed housing experiment in displacing and stacking people calls to mind the book The Broken Heart of America, by Walter Johnson. In an instant, it signified for me a huge portion of the causal reasons behind this gentle man’s homelessness.
I’m not sure if Paul would even agree with that last paragraph? By way of explaining his vagabond lifestyle, he explained that he was the only child of Naomi, a strong woman with an unshakable faith in God and her son. His organized life of living indoors and going to work sort of fell apart when he fell apart, on account of his mom’s health falling apart. With no community to fall back on, his organized life died with his mom.
“I’ve always kept to myself,” he explained, “on account of the fact that I was born with my eyes crossed.” Apparently, such a condition made bullying easy, and schoolwork hard. It wouldn’t be until adulthood that he would have the ability to get those eyes straightened out through a surgical procedure. In the meantime, his mother would assure him, “You have nothing to be ashamed of.” “Hold your head up.” She saw to it that the church they belonged to was home for him. As I conversed with Paul, it became clear that faith, and a faith community, was the wealth in his tiny family of two. Thanks to his mom and their church, faith was a living thing for him…a saving thing for him. When he discussed his faith, or his mom, those sincere brown eyes would moisten. For the price of a few biscuits and mediocre gravy, I was treated to a mini-retreat by a man who was willing to share what little he had: himself. Despite an adulthood that has known many forms of brutality, Paul has managed to hold onto a fundamental goodness that shines out of him. The most accurate thing I could say: Paul is a soft and gentle light in the world.
Taking Our Leave
At the end of our meal, we stood outside the restaurant. He stretched, smiled, and said, “Now, with this full belly, I have to find a place in the sun to lie down and take a nap.” Before that nap, he saw to it that we prayed together. We clasped hands. I prayed for him. He prayed for me as well as my kids, especially John Harry and Sophie, and their wedding the next week. We hugged. He agreed to meet me at a downtown church two days later, on Sunday. I had determined that the next time we met, I’d line up a few things for him, including some clean clothes and a shower, and maybe even some housing solutions.
Guess Who Didn’t Show Up?
Just about anybody who has ever worked with unhoused people could have guessed what happened on the next Sunday. Paul didn’t show. Come to find out, living without a cell phone, or a watch, or a place to live, has a way of making time travel differently. In the words of a North Saint Louis pastor, “Homeless people live in the moment.”
In retrospect, I wish I had had one of Matt Lamb’s Homeless Bags filled and ready to give away to Paul, so at least he could have washed up a little and put on clean socks. Then again, that part of me that prides itself on busyness and productivity could have used one of Matt’s bags as a kind of Teflon coating, like this, “Here’s some stuff! Keep warm and well fed!” Looking back over my shoulder, what I can see plain as day is that my chance encounter with Naomi’s beloved son was meant to feed me. This soft and gentle light in the world illuminated a truth I’ll try to live by. Somehow, someway, against all odds, love endures. Saint Paul, pray for us.
Dialogue and Discussion Questions:
Longtime SMC readers know that “the Dialogue” section of this article is set aside for a good conversation over a cup of coffee—with a friend, with a group, or just with yourself! As always, feel free to share your reaction or reflection in the “Comments” section below.
This morning, I had coffee with Sandy. She read last week’s article about Kevin Lamb. With tears in her eyes, she spoke of how Kevin inspired her to make contact with a homeless woman. She shared her groceries, and a meaningful encounter. When was a time that you made meaningful contact with an insecurely housed person? What remains with you about that encounter?
In Matthew 25, Jesus identified himself with the poor, the hungry, the vulnerable, the alien, the prisoner, the sick. Pay attention to what he didn’t say. “When I was poor, but not a substance abuser, you gave me to eat.” He also never said, “When I was a prisoner, not guilty of any crime, you visited me.” And he didn’t ever specify, “When I was naked and thirsty, but not manipulative, you gave me clothes and water.” How do you metabolize the fact that frequently the hungry, thirsty, naked, sick, imprisoned person can be addicted, or mentally ill, or manipulative, or capable of foolish choices?
That same pastor in North Saint Louis, Father Mitch Doyen, frequently preaches about working to resolve systems that result in people being refugees in their own country, or refugees fleeing a horrific situation in another country. He also makes the point that it is a relationship with one of these people that animates the hard work of systemic change. Who do you know that is working to make their community more gentle, loving, and available to all? Have you ever felt inspired to join an effort like this? Tell that story, or simply take time to go back and relive the swell of passion you felt back then.
When is the time of your life when you felt the most vulnerable? What saw you through that time? Who helped you remember your innate dignity?
Please share with the SMC community your thoughts and/or reflections in the comments below.
Comments