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 Somalia
they come from the
lands of poverty
and from rural
byways in the deep south
from behind the sagebrush
curtain of the west
from the depths
of great American 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 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 within
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
a stranger who
remains a stranger
unvalued and
unwelcomed
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, and yes
ah, yes
into our hearts!
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 not a
stranger,
but a beloved, 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
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