Meeting Jesus

Last month I talked about meeting Jesus. This week, I met Jesus.

He didn’t come to meet me in any of the places he’s supposed to be: not on the cross, not in a stained glass window, not in the pages of the Bible, not in communion, not in my heart, not in any of the other places I’ve been told to look for him. No, Jesus walked right into the hall outside the church office. And he didn’t look the way he was supposed to either: no halo, no flowing hair, no flowing white robe, no unwrinkled white skin. No, Jesus was a black man with a clean coat and a huge duffel bag, salt-and-pepper hair cut very short, the smell of a few cigarettes, and a few wearied lines in his face.

I kept him waiting when he came in; I was on a very important phone call. When I was finally ready, I walked out of our locked office (we always keep the office locked, because you can’t be too careful). I went into the hall where he was sitting on an old pew and sat down next to him. He said, “can we talk in private?”

I wasn’t sure, but I took a chance, unlocked the door, and walked in with him. Then it occurred to me that I never talked to people in the hall, and I felt a little guilty. “Sit wherever you like,” I said. He sat down. I did too.

Then he told me that he was trying to get home to Kentucky—a little town I’d never heard of. He called me “brother,” talked about how he prayed and how God took care of him. I didn’t pay much attention because I knew that vagrants always try to impress preachers with a lot of talk about God. He told me how the father at the Catholic church had gotten him a room at the motel, how the Lord had moved a stranger had given him enough money, how a friend was coming to pick him up tomorrow. “So,” he said, “I need a ride to the store and then to the motel.” I waited for him to ask for money. He didn’t.

“You mean you just need a ride?”

“That’s right…and if you could, wait for me to run into a grocery store and buy some food.”

I could do that. So he tossed his bag in my van, got in, and we drove to a store. I made small talk and tried to figure out his angle. Would he tell me that he couldn’t pay at the store? Would he ask for me to pay for another night at the hotel? Was he going to just ask for money? I couldn’t see the plan as I waited. I thought about telling him that I had to go. I’d already gone out of my way to give him a ride, done my good deed for the day. I was going to miss my lunch, and it wasn’t that far to the motel...but when he came out with a little bag of food (I noticed ramen noodles, which are just about the cheapest food you can buy), I felt a little more guilty and kept quiet.

Then he said, “can we stop by the gas station too? I just need one thing.” So I took him to get his pack of cigarettes. Of course, even when he was begging he was still smoking—it figured. “I’ve got 10 minutes,” I told him. I stopped by a pump to wait for a car to pull out of a parking space, and he jumped out right away. I was definitely going to miss lunch now, so I dug in the back of my van and found a brownie. I’d bought it in the morning because I’d missed breakfast. I left late because I’d had to search for pants…I couldn’t fit into the ones I’d picked out, the ones that fit just fine before Thanksgiving. After I bought it I thought that maybe I didn’t need a brownie after all, but now I was missing lunch too, and I had to eat something, didn’t I? So I ate the brownie quickly. I had to shove the last bite in my mouth because he was done in four minutes and jogged back to the van. “Sorry that took so long,” he said.

Then we drove through the cold rain to the motel. It was a lot farther than I remembered. I thought about walking all that way in freezing rain. I thought about how long I’d be able to keep my home if I lost my job. I thought about the brownie I’d eaten, even though it was bad for me. I thought about eating it quickly, before the hungry man next to me noticed. And I remembered the words of judgment that Jesus said he would repeat on the last day:

“I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me.”

And when the judged would ask Jesus, “Lord, when were you a hungry or thirsty or a stranger stranger and we didn’t help you?” he would say

“Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.”

Then I knew that I was meeting Jesus, and that I had not welcomed him in. And I felt very, very, guilty.

He didn’t ask for money, but when he wasn’t looking I stuck a bill in his bag. I thought I’d feel better, but I didn’t. Then I remembered something that one of Jesus’ disciples said: “If I give all I possess to the poor but have no love, I gain nothing.” So I pulled out my card.

“Would you do me a favor?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said.

“When you get where you’re going, call me so I know you’re safe. Oh, and if your friend doesn’t come and you’re stuck here longer, let me know.” Then I looked him in the eye, and shook his hand. He smiled. He picked up his bag, his food, and his smokes, and went into the motel.

It’s a good thing for me that Jesus doesn’t hold a grudge. But the next time he shows up, I won’t leave him waiting in the hall.