After the Martha's Table worship service, it is my habit, as hospitality coordinator, to visit each table and say hello to the folks as they are eating their dinner. I introduce myself, tell them why I'm greeting each table, and try to mix it up each time so I don't sound like a broken record. The majority of the time, the folks are too focused on eating to have much desire to converse with me or ask questions. Buuut, a few weeks ago (the last time I was at Martha's Table) I met a homeless man named Ron who had a great deal to say.
At Ron's table I asked if the guys seated there were feeling peace. The rest said yes, but Ron said no with emphasis. I asked why not, and he spoke with cynicism and near-rage about the fact that he would spend the night trying not to freeze while at the same time trying to avoid the police who won't let homeless people sleep where they please. He also spoke at great length (despite his table-mates' attempts to turn the conversation to other topics) about what an evil and hypocritical place is the Gospel Mission, in his estimation. "When I leave here I have to find a place to sleep and try not to freeze my ass off," he said to me. "What would Jesus have to say about that?" The tone of his voice was a challenge.
I can say with confidence that very few times in my life have I been unable to find something to say to someone. This was one of those rare times. What would Jesus say to this homeless man with so much anger in his heart? "Think on the treasures you have stored in heaven" seemed empty considering what this man was going to face when he left the warmth of the church building. "God never gives a person more than he can handle" or "the bruised reed He will not break" would surely have sounded like verbal slaps in the face. "Perhaps your faith is being tested, like Job" also would have sounded hollow and completely bereft of any understanding of Ron's current situation. "I don't know what Jesus would say about that," I told him. I looked over at Pastor, sitting at another table, involved with the folks who had joined him there to eat. I willed him to look up and catch my eye, but he didn't, and Ron continued to spew his vitriol.
The best I could find in my mind to say to him was that life can almost always be worse. How, he wondered, and I pointed out that he seems to be a healthy man: He has two eyes, two arms, two legs; he would leave under his own power and was not lying alone in some hospital bed. Ron complained about how it could be so much better, and I said that it's important to focus on what he does have, rather than what he does not. "Would I love to be a famous singer? Of course. But I'm not, and I try to focus on what I do have in life because it's much more cheerful." More grumbling.
When I was finally able to extricate myself from the conversation, I promised to pray for Ron. Fat lot of good that will do me, I'm sure he was thinking. But I did, and I still do. Anger is like cancer, and he has a severe case of it.
When I left the church that evening almost everyone else had already left. It had started to rain, a cold rain that threatened to change to sleet or snow. I hurried to my car and drove home in silence, feeling very thanful indeed for the blessings in life that I normally take for granted.
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