Our trips to the soup kitchen are usually pretty predictable. A couple kids, often looking very tired from a full school day, pile into my car after meeting outside the parish center. I try to force small talk throughout the twenty-minute drive and rely on K-Love to fill the silent gaps. But, when we finally arrive and begin serving, the Holy Spirit rolls up its sleeves and shakes us all from our "bubble lifestyle." It is very humbling to witness the transformation in these teens, who often arrive looking incredibly nervous, but are soon engaging in kind exchanges and conversations with our guests and gladly accepting tasks that they would never want to do in their own homes. The two hours pass very quickly, and as we drive back to the parish, the teens initiate their own conversations about giving thanks, giving back, and recognizing the "big picture." The change that happens in this brief time span is remarkable, and I'm blessed to be able to witness it.
However, I always take this blessing for granted. When those Thursday evenings roll around and I'm worn out from a busy week, I never want to go to the soup kitchen. Instead, I want to go to my home and curl up on my couch and watch my favorite TV shows in my slippers (do you see a pattern here?). Thank God our teens and guests break my selfish attitude and remind me of the beauty of compassion, generosity, and simplicity of heart. During one of our trips this past May, one such teen took these fruits of the Spirit to a whole new level.
As we were driving back to the parish after another successful trip, I asked the teens what they thought about the experience. Without missing a beat, one of the boys shared how the experience really hit home as he said, "That could have been me on the other side of the counter."
At seventeen, this young man has already been in and out of rehab, and is working very hard to stay sober. As he interacted with the homeless men, women, and children coming through the kitchen doors, he must have recognized how devastating untreated addictions can become, and he saw where his life might lead. He looked into the eyes of the poor, downtrodden, and forgotten, and saw himself.
We are taught to see Christ in the poor and remember His words, "Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least these who are members of my family, you did it to me" (Matthew 25:40). But, how many of us would want to see ourselves in the poor? Even if I look them in the eyes and speak with words of compassion, I still mentally distance myself from them. I assume that their poverty is caused by their own faulty judgments and life decisions, and that such would never happen to me. However, placing mental blocks between myself and the poor isn't at all what Jesus wants me to do. I can't credit myself for any of the things I have. I was simply lucky to have been born into a family that values faith, good education, good values, and personal health. I did nothing to earn that, and could just have easily been born in a slum. So, why do I carry an attitude of self-righteousness when I encounter the very Creator who has given me these blessings, present in the homeless man across the counter?
For this teen, all ego, pride, and vanity have been stripped away. The only thing between him and the man he is serving is the countertop. No excuses, judgment, or fear. He knows that in serving this man, he may as well have been serving himself, and he isn't afraid to accept that reality. The older man he is serving has economic poverty (and perhaps, many spiritual gifts, too), while he has raw spiritual poverty. These two brothers in Christ, one from an affluent suburb and the other without an address, are sharing their poverty without judgment or reservation. Truly, "Theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven" (Matthew 5:3).
In the end, it won't matter which side of the counter we were on, anyway. The only thing that will really matter is whether we loved the person who stood on the other side, and whether we were humble and gracious enough to see not only Christ in their eyes, but ourselves, too.
Last Supper by Fritz Eichenberg
