Mercy shall triumph over judgment (James 2:13)

A guest asked what he should do about a spider bite. Where he was bitten is not healing. It is red and infected. He did not want to see a doctor. “I had my fill of doctors. I cared for my parents when they were dying. Being around doctors raises up all sorts of hard memories. I just can’t be around doctors.”

 

He couldn’t show Kathleen and I the spider bite. “It’s in a sensitive area,” he said, looking down. 

 

“Is there a way I could get some antibiotics without seeing a doctor? I’ve tried antibiotic creams. They aren’t working.” 

 

Sleeping outside, under a bridge, in an abandoned building, or in some wooded area, spider bites happen. This on top of mosquitoes, flies, and rats.

 

Kathleen suggested the Christ Community Clinic down the street at Catholic Charities. “You might not even see a doctor; you might see a Physician’s Assistant. You do really need to get that looked at and get some treatment.”

 

A new guest showed up with an orthopedic boot on his foot. He wore a paper hospital suit and still had the medical ID bracelet on his wrist. “I got discharged this morning. I’ve got a plan. Don’t worry, I’m going to be ok.”

 

A long-term guest wandered the yard talking into the air, or maybe with herself. When she came up for “socks and hygiene” I could hear snippets of her conversation. Though what I heard did not make much sense, it was clear that anything she suggested was being rejected by the voices she heard.

 

Earlier, during my morning prayer, I read from the Letter of James, “Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment” (James 2:12- 13).

 

Our guests, it seems, experience a lot more judgment than mercy. 

 

And sometimes I am part of the problem. When I practice hospitality at Manna House, I make judgments. Last week I judged that a guest had cut the line for the shower list. I asked him to go to the back of the line. He didn’t take it so well, grabbed the clipboard from my hands where I was recording names for the shower list, and threw it across the porch. I judged again and asked him to leave.

 

Then the other morning, as I worked the “socks and hygiene” table, I saw a guest whose name had not been called standing by the shirts. I asked him to get on the list and not stand by the shirts. As he walked away, I saw a shirt in his hand. I judged he had taken a shirt and asked him to give it back and wait for his turn. He threw the shirt at me and stalked off. 

 

And I am part of all sorts of judgments in our practice of hospitality. Only twenty people can get on the shower list. We stop doing “socks and hygiene” at 10:00 a.m. We have limited hours.

 

How then can I hope to practice James’ call for mercy to triumph over judgment? Maybe I reflect mercy when I listen and offer encouragement about suggestions for getting treatment for a spider bite. Maybe I offer mercy when I listen to the story of the man in the boot. Maybe I share mercy when I wait for a guest to let the voices stop enough so she can still select some hygiene items and get a shirt. Maybe I practice of mercy when I show up every Monday and Thursday and help provide hospitality. Maybe. 

 

At the end of the day, I have to hope that God’s mercy triumphs over judgment more consistently than mine does.

Desert Places

“The Lord your God … has watched over your journey through this vast wilderness” (Deuteronomy 2:7).

 

A Bible booklet, open to a yellowed and water-stained page, lay abandoned on a front bench at Manna House. The headline, “Desert Places” caught my eye. I was about to lock the gate after a morning of hospitality. Physically, the desert is a stark and hard place to live. Spiritually, the desert is a place of testing, and for vision quest. The desert is a “liminal space” in which there is uncertainty between where one has been and where one might be going. It is a threshold (Latin, “limen”).

            From a spiritual perspective, the desert is a location for spiritual growth. The opening words of the booklet pointed in that direction. “God’s aim is to use the desert places in our lives to make us stronger… God’s goodness is meant to be received in the midst of your pain, not proven by the absence of pain… The desert is not an oversight in God’s plan but an integral part of [our] growth process.”

But such a view is dangerous, perhaps even damaging. Is it God’s plan for people to be on the streets? Is it God’s plan for those experiencing homelessness to suffer, to be in pain? I don’t think so. God is not a masochist who wants people to be in poverty and suffer.

Then a slightly different point was made. “God was with Moses and the Israelites each step of their way through the desert, and He’s (sic) with you and me in ours.” Yes, God can meet people on the streets. Maybe one way this can happen is through Manna House. At Manna House, hospitality intersects with the desert of the streets. We welcome people to cross a threshold for respite from the streets. 

I hope this is what God does at Manna House. God calls us to share hospitality, to offer an oasis in a desert. Guests come for this alternative to the desert, that yet stands near the desert. Our guests come for the shade and slightly cooler temperatures of the backyard, for the cold water, and the showers. But they also come to be welcomed, greeted by name, listened to, and even celebrated (we like to sing “Happy Birthday” when we find out it is someone’s birthday). In hospitality, the desert (for a time) gives way to an oasis we share as volunteers and guests. We reject the desert of a system that judges, denigrates, and excludes people based on race, class, gender, and sexual orientation. We create with our guests a place where all are welcome. 

But as good as that might sound, it is still dangerous. It could easily be deformed into a charity where those offering hospitality are above the guests, dispensing favors, and not being touched by the desert. As I offer hospitality, I need to remember that the harshness of the desert remains. And sometimes it seems like God is not there. Jesus on the cross quotes Psalm 21:1 as he cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” People on the streets are crucified. Harassment, exclusion, ridicule, arrest and imprisonment, the abrupt loss of health, the sudden death of a loved one, losing a job, suffering from addiction or mental illness, not being able to make ends meet, ending up on the streets, where’s God in any of that? 

To practice hospitality, I need to let this desert reality touch me and change me. I need to let it humble me and disabuse me of easy answers. I need to listen and learn from the guests who come, the experts in desert life. I need to practice compassion, not judgment. I need to let God teach me that hospitality is a liminal place where I am emptied of myself when God crosses the threshold as a guest.