An Open Letter to the Man on the Corner of Baxter and Love
It was after the 9am service that I saw you. You were standing in the 38º weather at the four-way stop on Baxter and Love, the corner where my church meets. You had a prosthetic leg and a sign that said "Imminent Situation."
My first thought was a result of three-and-a-half years of business school, where I've been taught to evaluate situations in terms of financial gain. "How strategic," I mused as I pulled out of the parking lot and caught a glimpse of you, "To place yourself outside one of the biggest churches in the valley, a place where we're taught to give generously and live missionally."
My second thought was one of fear and shame.
My heart started pounding as I watched as car after car pulled up to that stop sign, paused, and then kept driving. I watched as people briefly made eye contact with you and then deliberately turned away. I watched as my sisters and brothers were presented with the chance to show you what Christ's love looks like, and then drove past the opportunity.
I was one of them.
I had plenty of excuses, none of which were valid. I contemplated the measly $20 in my pocket and about how it might enable you or how I needed it more. I reasoned that, since I wasn't driving, I couldn't control whether or not we stopped. I thought about how embarrassed it would make me to pull over and have everyone stare. As we drove past and my throat constricted, desperately trying to make my voice tell my friend to turn around, I hardened my heart to you. I found myself praying frantically that someone, anyone, would stop and help you, that we wouldn't be such a hypocritical bunch of Christians, but I wasn't willing to be the one.
Earlier in the week, I was studying the Apostles' Creed with one of my friends. We were dwelling on the section that states, "He [Jesus] suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and buried; he descended to hell." My friend just decided to follow Jesus two months ago and has little background with faith, so I thought it would be good to spend time focusing on what the crucifixion of Christ means without rushing forward to the resurrection. We talked about the excruciating suffering Jesus went through on our behalf, and how we should be willing to suffer for the sake of those He loves.
Not four full days later, I was unwilling to suffer for you.
Oh, the bitter irony. You were standing on the corner of Love Lane and I couldn't find it in myself to love you.
This letter is my apology and my confession to you. I am so sorry for the way that I treated you this morning. I am ashamed of my lack of action. There were many cars that left after me, and two whole services full of people that followed in the hours to come. I pray desperately that someone stopped to help you. I repent that I was not the one.
This letter, though, is also a thank you. You, sir, have opened up my eyes to the apathy that grips my heart. As I write this letter, there are tears in my eyes over your situation and my actions. I cannot remember the last time that I cried for someone besides myself, that I grieved on the behalf of others. I repent of this as well. While I know a thank you is not nearly as helpful to you as a coat or a warm meal, at this point in time it is what I have to offer. Thank you for your humility and your willingness to ask for help. Please don't base your perception of Jesus on the way we acted this morning. I'm sorry that I did not have the courage to love like Jesus would have. Thanks for showing me that I still have far, far, far to go in this regard.
My aim in writing this isn't to elicit a bunch of comments from people on Facebook, reassuring me that I am a good person despite the way that I acted this morning. It isn't supposed to make me feel better. Instead, I hope that it is a challenge, both to myself and to the people who are kind enough to read the ramblings of my heart. The next time I see you, dear brother, or one of the other members of God's creation who are in similar circumstances, I promise to do something to help. I promise to pull over and have a conversation, at the very least. I promise to act. I promise to love like Jesus did and does.
I know it's not worth much today, and for that I am so, so sincerely sorry. I just hope it can be of worth to someone tomorrow.
I doubt you'll ever read this, but I hope you can forgive me.
Love,
Mackenzie
My first thought was a result of three-and-a-half years of business school, where I've been taught to evaluate situations in terms of financial gain. "How strategic," I mused as I pulled out of the parking lot and caught a glimpse of you, "To place yourself outside one of the biggest churches in the valley, a place where we're taught to give generously and live missionally."
My second thought was one of fear and shame.
My heart started pounding as I watched as car after car pulled up to that stop sign, paused, and then kept driving. I watched as people briefly made eye contact with you and then deliberately turned away. I watched as my sisters and brothers were presented with the chance to show you what Christ's love looks like, and then drove past the opportunity.
I was one of them.
I had plenty of excuses, none of which were valid. I contemplated the measly $20 in my pocket and about how it might enable you or how I needed it more. I reasoned that, since I wasn't driving, I couldn't control whether or not we stopped. I thought about how embarrassed it would make me to pull over and have everyone stare. As we drove past and my throat constricted, desperately trying to make my voice tell my friend to turn around, I hardened my heart to you. I found myself praying frantically that someone, anyone, would stop and help you, that we wouldn't be such a hypocritical bunch of Christians, but I wasn't willing to be the one.
Earlier in the week, I was studying the Apostles' Creed with one of my friends. We were dwelling on the section that states, "He [Jesus] suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and buried; he descended to hell." My friend just decided to follow Jesus two months ago and has little background with faith, so I thought it would be good to spend time focusing on what the crucifixion of Christ means without rushing forward to the resurrection. We talked about the excruciating suffering Jesus went through on our behalf, and how we should be willing to suffer for the sake of those He loves.
Not four full days later, I was unwilling to suffer for you.
Oh, the bitter irony. You were standing on the corner of Love Lane and I couldn't find it in myself to love you.
This letter, though, is also a thank you. You, sir, have opened up my eyes to the apathy that grips my heart. As I write this letter, there are tears in my eyes over your situation and my actions. I cannot remember the last time that I cried for someone besides myself, that I grieved on the behalf of others. I repent of this as well. While I know a thank you is not nearly as helpful to you as a coat or a warm meal, at this point in time it is what I have to offer. Thank you for your humility and your willingness to ask for help. Please don't base your perception of Jesus on the way we acted this morning. I'm sorry that I did not have the courage to love like Jesus would have. Thanks for showing me that I still have far, far, far to go in this regard.
My aim in writing this isn't to elicit a bunch of comments from people on Facebook, reassuring me that I am a good person despite the way that I acted this morning. It isn't supposed to make me feel better. Instead, I hope that it is a challenge, both to myself and to the people who are kind enough to read the ramblings of my heart. The next time I see you, dear brother, or one of the other members of God's creation who are in similar circumstances, I promise to do something to help. I promise to pull over and have a conversation, at the very least. I promise to act. I promise to love like Jesus did and does.
I know it's not worth much today, and for that I am so, so sincerely sorry. I just hope it can be of worth to someone tomorrow.
I doubt you'll ever read this, but I hope you can forgive me.
Love,
Mackenzie
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