Come TO ME

I recall meeting a young woman two weeks ago in church. She was passing by the bar that The Garden Church inhabits on Sundays, and a greeter invited her to come in for some food. Her face remained placid and she didn't reply, only turned abruptly into the doorway ahead of me and maneuvered through a light crowd of people to the table with assorted brunch items. I thought nothing of her, only felt a surge of pride that our little community was making a difference in her life today by feeding her, the hungry.

My observance of her vanished, and I bit my lip upon entering the larger space devoted to the gathering, sought some familiar faces, and moved to my place beside close friends. A few minutes later, however, I saw out of the corner of my eye that she was sitting alone in the back row, still staring, but eating vigorously.

I feel uncomfortable at times, by myself, so I went back, invited her to follow me to a seat next to me, and then I began to talk with her.

My first question, which I struggled to find, since I had no idea what to talk with a middle-aged, homeless woman about was, "So, do you live in Long Beach?"

She nodded, eyes straight ahead.

"In which part of the city?"

"All over." Her eyes bore into me.

"Oh, interesting." Feigning ignorance, "How do you live all over?" I tilted my head to the side looking at her curiously.

"I'm homeless." She repressed a smile, stuffing another vigorous bite into her mouth.

"And, how is that? Do you like it?" At least it was an authentic question, albeit silly.

She laughed, not with me. "Sure."

"How do you get food, and work? Isn't it cold outside since it's winter?" Again she covered her smile with a bite, swallowed 1/4 cup of coffee, wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and said, "I get plenty to eat, I don't have a job right now, and it's not too cold."

I was silent.

She interjected, "Where do you work?"

"I'm a teacher."

"Of little kids?"

"No, adults mostly, college age."

She looked at my hand, "Oh, and you're married."

"Yes. My husband Patrick," I pointed across the room.

"Kids?"

"No. Not yet. I'm not sure if we will have kids."

She nodded, her face betraying nothing, "I have a son."

"You do? Does he live with you?" Dumb question.

"No, but I'm trying to get him back."

The music began, signaling the start of the service. She turned slightly, "I'm going to go now."

For weeks I have thought of her, realizing how ineffective our communication was. I am the typical middle class young teacher, married, without kids. My questions for her were about material comfort and security, features of human life that she has clearly balked for one reason or another. The tone of her smile was not mocking. In fact, she was fine to let me be, but couldn't her questioning have turned...

"So, you're a teacher, and you live in Belmont Shore. How is that? To quarantine yourself from the bulk of humanity and spend your time, energy, and money conforming to what the next person says, does, and looks like, to be constantly afraid that your monetary, personal, and social value is slipping, and to depend on doing, striving, and becoming to be told that you are worth something?"

Yes, she smiled, because she knows that we are two people on orbits that will not ever touch, so different are our world-views and value systems.

This morning I was reading Søren Kierkegaard's Practicing Christianity and came across this passage. Please, please read it:

"To invite them to come to one, that cannot be done; then one's entire household and way of life would have to be altered. It will not do, when one is living in abundance oneself or at least in joy and gladness, to reside together in a house and live together in a common life and in daily association with the poor and wretched, with those who labor and are burdened. In order to invite them to come to one in this way, one must oneself live in the very same manner, poor as the poorest, poorly regarded as the lowly man among the people, experienced in life's sorrow and anguish, sharing the very same condition as those one invites to come to one, those who labor and are burdened. If someone wants to invite the sufferer to come to him, he must either alter his condition and make it identical with the sufferer's or make the sufferer's condition identical with his own, for if not, the contrast makes the difference all the greater."

Christ's invitation in the verse "Come to me all who are labored and burdened," is his own crying out, as the one who can help, for those who are "poor" (in every sense) to come to him. SK reveals that it is often the seeker of help who cries out, not the physician, the priest, the counselor, the friend, the father, crying to the one who is broken, "Come, TO ME."

I do not call the broken to myself; when or if they come, asking, I do not receive them to myself. Instead, I offer this or that piece of knowledge, wisdom, material article, food, money, but I do not say with warmth, welcome friend, come to me and be here.

I am not Christ, who first uttered these words. However, the same spirit who raised Jesus from the dead lives IN ME. The same spirit that moved in him when he spoke these words lives IN ME.

But am I ready to receive those who I would invite to come? As Kierkegaard writes, to receive, "one must oneself live in the very same manner . . . sharing the very same condition as those one invites to come to one."