In the heartland
the not so south south
where bourbon and racehorses reign
it is a sultry even for a walk down to the “mothership”
the headquarters of the PCUSA (Presbyterian Church)
the sidewalks are littered with renta-scooters
and littered with people
we have name for them
these people with a hand out
and a story
but honestly
the names don’t fit
they are demeaning
and deny the humanity of these precious souls
children of God
children of God
children of God
she has a story
as tears stream down her check
about too many people wandnering in an out of where she
lives
and having her hair cut as she sleeps
of asking a nurse in the ER to hold her “stuff”
why she goes out for smoke
only to find it gone on her return
“I can’t get across the bridge”
“I don’t know what is going on”
He is fresh out of the penitentiary
Tall and cheerful
Riding a scooter he would love whatever I can give
He is white, with scraggly hair
“Hey boyo, how about some helping”
They are everywhere
And I am just a country boy
Fresh off the plane
Perhaps it was the gospel lesson for this week
“take up your cross”
Perhaps it was my pontificating to the congregation I
serve
Let your “me” become “we”
But I empty my wallet
A dollar here, five there
Until it is gone
The stories ring true
Don’t ring true
They are cogent and scattered
Logical and fanciful
It doesn’t matter
These are people
and one cannot look them in the eye
and listen
and leave
do it to the least of these
Jesus said
Perhaps it is fitting that the national church
Sit on the edge of a river
(think waters of baptism
Spring of living
water)
Perhaps it is more fitting that
It squats amidst this sea of people
Hurting, numb
Alone, not alone
Truthful, not truthful
Black, white
Sitting
Shambling
Laughing
Crying
Talking
Silent
Children of God
When we do it to the least
We do it to Jesus
Did I get “taken”
Probably
Do I care?
Absolutely not
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