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Contents © 2000
by Jim Holman.
All rights reserved.

MAY 2000 CONFESSIONS

WHY GIVE TO BEGGARS?

It's odd what lodges in the memory; why this and not that? Odd too how these bits of detritus form us, color our sensibilities. Back in high school, I dated a very sweet Methodist girl who took her Christianity seriously. One day in late fall, as we were hanging out on the Commons in Ithaca, New York, we were approached by a man, probably homeless, who asked for some money for food.

Not having any change, and following the example of my father, whom I have never seen refuse a beggar, I gave the man a dollar bill. I was careful to say, "God bless you," instead of "good luck" as I did so, because I wanted the man to understand my motivations -- not merely "decent-thing-to-do" altruism, but obedience to God as well. My father had reminded me, "Jesus said, 'Give to the man who begs from you,'" and His words (with Dad's voice) sounded in my head every time I was petitioned. As the man walked away, my girlfriend said, with palpable disappointment, "You just bought that man his next drink."

I got defensive, surprised to hear criticism coming from what I thought would be a sympathetic corner. "You don't know that," I retorted. "And besides, so what if I did? Maybe that drink is his only comfort in life." Or something like that. An immature reaction, no doubt fueled by wounded pride. Surely I was not really in favor of a man blowing whatever money he could scrounge up on booze, only to end up dead in the New York winter, frozen on a park bench?

And yet, Jesus said, "Give to the man who begs from you." Were there not those in Jesus' time who would spend their alms on whatever would, if only for a moment, relieve their suffering? Didn't Jesus know that you might be feeding an addiction? Or shall we apply a different standard of morality to the destitute, allowing them pleasures that we forbid ourselves?

My attention to Jesus' words should not be confused with the question, "What Would Jesus Do?" Jesus is not some far-off Divine role model; He is the head of the mystical body. He is to be consulted, not imagined. He has sent the counselor, the Holy Spirit, to guide us. WWJD? seems a strange, at once overpersonal and too-removed version of "What is the Christian thing to do?" Neither am I a literalist -- I do not handle poisonous serpents. I believe in the natural virtue of prudence, which brings me back to that question of double moral standards.

One solution to this problem is giving to charitable institutions. The institution may require that those who benefit from it be drug-free, may distribute goods instead of cash, may know through painful experience what may be done, what may be hoped for. And once you have donated, the further requests for money that inevitably follow are fairly easy to refuse. It becomes substantially more difficult when the requests are from the needy themselves, even moreso when you have been drawn into their life.

Such was the case recently. Every time I heard my wife talking to the poor woman she had befriended, I heard her say, "I'll have to talk to my husband," and my heart sank. What advice could I give? When is it enough? Jesus never said when to stop; he talked about walking the extra mile, giving from your want. I write about consulting the Holy Spirit, but I am rotten at discernment. I ask with utter sincerity for guidance, but always end up following what feels more like my gut instinct than any spiritual stirring. I go back to my father's example.

I am a sensitive (soft?) man. Mostly, when a man (or woman) asks me for money, I think not of his laziness or his questionable story or his evil habits, but of the suffering that has driven him to this humiliation. I think of the abuse he must suffer from those who see him as a blight and let him know it. I think of his crippled spirit, and unless I smell booze on him (Why not then? Am I a hypocrite to my own standard?), I give something.

I don't know if this is always right; perhaps the drugs he intends to buy are what crippled his spirit in the first place. But when he begs from me, I feel as if he has made himself vulnerable, and that vulnerability sets up an intimacy, and in that intimacy, I am more likely to see another suffering member of the body of Christ. It's too much for me to back away from.

Mother Teresa's Missionaries of Charity spend much of their time comforting those for whom there is no hope, showing them some kindness and relief in their final days on earth. This is real charity. I didn't give that man in Ithaca a dollar so that he could buy a drink, but is it too outrageous to suppose that if a drink were that man's last comfort, there might have been some real charity there as well?

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