welcome

Washed into the doorway

by the wake of traffic,

he wears humanity

like a third-hand shirt

–blackened with enough

of Manhattan’s dirt to sprout

a tree, or poison one.

His empty hand has led him

where he has come to.

Our differences claim us.

He holds out his hand,

in need of all that’s mine.

And so we’re joined, as deep

as son and father. His life

is offered me to choose.

Shall I begin servitude

to him? Let this cup pass.

Who am I? But charity must

suppose, knowing no better,

that this man is a man fallen

among thieves, or come

to this strait by no fault

–that our difference

is not a judgment,

though I can afford to eat

and am made his judge.

I am, I nearly believe,

the Samaritan who fell

into the ambush of his heart

on the way to another place.

My stranger waits, his hand

held out like something to read,

as though its emptiness

is an accomplishment.

I give him a smoke and the price

of a meal, no more

–not sufficient kindness

or believable sham.

I paid him to remain strange

to my threshold and table,

to permit me to forget him—

knowing I won’t. He’s the guest

of my knowing, though not asked.

                        Wendell Berry

___________________________

people come to us from everywhere

from Guatemala, and Venezuela,

from Syria and South Sudan

from Myanmar and Somolia

the come the lands of poverty

from rural byways in the deep south

from behind the sage brush curtain of the west

from the depths of great cities

where urine soaked back allies

and littered doorways are called home

they wash up to our doorways

wearing their poverty

their hunger and exhaustion like a dirt shirt

weighed down by hopelessness and fear

chased by contempt and shaming

neglected by those who are

too comfortable, too important, too busy

to stop, to see, to listen, to care

those busily on their journeys

to church,

or work

those who will not offer a glance

but stare stolidly ahead

head down

rushing through life

to whatever is next

rushing past hoping not to see

some offer a sort of welcome

a token gesture

a coin tossed

help offered at arms length

just enough to feel righteous

but not embrace

just enough to satisfy the conscience

and that strange Sacred pull

that comes from deep with in

that comes from Sacred Presence

a quick handout, a furtive meal

a scrap of cloth, a voucher

so one can hurry on our way

or hurry them on their way

Out of sight

And out of mind

Ah Lord

that is not the way it is supposed to be

you wish to ambush our hearts

interrupt our lives

you want us to stop

and turn aside

to kneel in the dust like the Samaritan

who was good

to see, listen, engage

to offer our hand

to welcome the stranger

to our table, across our threshold

we know all the reasons not to

it is scary and costly

and our minds scream that this one

who is in such a place

got there on her own

earned his discomfiture

we hide behind fear

and use merit as an excuse

but still You call us to welcome

and embrace

Ah, God who is Love

help us to understand

that this one who holds out her hand

his hand

empty

is joined to us at the heart

do not permit us to forget

this one

whom we have found along our way

this guest

who has shown up

at the threshold of

our heart