Charity
Mark A Stuart

 

 Charity


And now abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity 1 Corinthians 13.13.


The teenage years are at best a confusing time. These are years when you are not yet old enough to realize that you don’t know too many things, but old enough to be certain that you already do. For most it is for most a time of trying out new ideas and seeing where you might fit in the world. I am sure that I was no different than most other boys my age. In my arrogance I liked to believe that I was smarter, better looking and superior to my peers in most every way that mattered, but I now know that just was not true. I was normal, which is to say that I did not have a firm grasp on the world view or the realities and prejudices that sadly shaped my community.
I was naïve and wildly optimistic about people and human nature and could not at that time fathom any morality that ventured too far from the golden rule. I had been raised by loving parents in a home with 3 younger brothers and we were all taught the difference between right and wrong from the beginning. While my folks weren’t perfect, even today I would be hard pressed to find two finer people. And I mean that in every possible way. They worked hard and made sure that we were familiar with that concept also. Honesty was not some airy moral tenet discussed around the dinner table, it was what and who my parents were. All of us boys knew from birth that we were put on this planet to do our best and to help others when and if they needed help.
We always carped and moaned about the time we had to spend in our garden. Due to its size, roughly 40% of my waking hours were spent planting, weeding, watering or picking something. My brothers, Mike, Robin, and Robert, along with myself, participated in the cultivation of every species of edible plant then known to science. Melons, beans, peas, squash, peppers, corn, tomatoes, sugar cane, broccoli, potatoes, onions, garlic, greens, various fruits and nuts , and things I didn’t even know the name of, were all under our charge. We grew things in a big way. This was not a few scraggly plants in planters or a couple of rows worth of vegetables. We had between 2 and 3 acres at some stage of maturity during all the seasons in which anything would grow. This was a fairly lengthy season in South Georgia.
It seemed patently obvious, even after filling 5 freezers with produce, that our garden grew more food than an army would be able to consume on a forced march of some duration. I queried my dad about this one day convinced that our discussion would lead to a curtailment of operations that would reduce my gardening time to roughly half of my free time and change my life for the better.
“Dad you know, I’ve been thinking. We don’t need all of this food. Even as much as we like to eat I don’t see how we are ever going to go through all of this. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to sort of cut back on the size of the garden this year? Me and Mike have been talking and we would be ok with only 3 types of peas this year and maybe only a couple of kinds of beans. And none of us really were wild about the Brussels sprouts or rutabagas.”
This discussion as much as anything really helped to form my opinion as to what people were put on earth for. My dad took some time to explain to me that this garden wasn’t just for us. And all of the work that we were doing was not for us in the immediate sense.
“This is for our neighbors and anybody that wants to have any of it.”
That made me slow down and think for a bit. If this were true I wouldn’t have minded seeing some of my neighbors hoe about 5 rows of that cane some afternoon. On the other hand, I could recall on an almost daily basis seeing some car or pickup truck roll up the driveway and head out back to the garden. These vehicles would have people in them, some that I knew and some that I didn’t know, who would park and emerge with baskets or boxes. It was so routine that that I did not pay much attention to them. They would pick butterbeans or pull some corn or tomatoes or whatever was ready at the time. I never remember anyone failing to stop back by the house and tell me or whoever was around how much they appreciated it.
My dad also took the time to explain how much this was for my own good; more so than any meal that we would ever provide for those people – needy or not. The value of service to others was stamped on four little boys in a permanent way.
This jibed with the sense of values that I was piecing together on my own at the time as well. I had been in church since I could remember. If the doors were opened, then my family was there. I was raised Baptist. Southern Baptist. This did not strike me as unusual in any way while growing up. It was one of only two choices in the rural south, and I always figured there wasn’t any substantial difference between us and the Methodists. They had shorter services and we had a better softball team.
Many of the things that are ascribed to Southern Baptists I never saw. We didn’t handle snakes, and although we never had a church dance I never heard a definitive policy statement condemning this and never thought it made much difference to anybody. I did see (although I did not understand it at the time) a lady speaking in tongues on one occasion. I thought she was having a seizure and did not put any particular weight on the event. We never had a “foot washing” and I never saw anyone “slayed by the spirit”. Most of the people in my church were hard working farmers and most likely would have considered that just plain strange.
Prayer meetings were regular and earnest. Prayers for rain, for the sick, for our nations’ leaders and for forgiveness were standard.
Sunday school started at 9:45 sharp and we were always there.
Sermons were long and impassioned. They were on occasion interesting. One thing that does seem to be a Baptist standard – if not invention – had to do with the delivery of the sermon. In addition to its length, apparently Baptist ministers were judged in seminary on the quality of their sermons by their volume. Perhaps they were taught that it made them easier to hear in small churches with out sound systems and it carried over throughout their careers. I was never sure, but all the preachers that we ever had shared this commonality: they were loud. Sermons would usually start out in the fire-side chat vein, all cozy and glad-you-stopped-by. This always changed. After a suitable warm-up of 10 to 15 minutes, the entire tenor of the oration would morph into a crescendo of near shouting.
 I don’t mention this as any kind of put down. I still marvel at the transformation that my ministers could achieve in such a short time. From a seemingly normal, calm man, into a red-faced, veins-a-poppin’, screaming deliverer of truth. It was almost like watching Bruce Banner hulk out. I was always sure that I was going to see the suit rip apart and become separated from his body, leaving a ranting, salivating, mutant, purveyor of salvation daring the congregation not to come forward during the invitation. That every minister we ever had could do this as easily as I can breath, speaks volumes of their training.
 Just as suddenly, calm was always restored as each of us were invited to come forward and publicly accept the grace that our Lord had made available to us. It was our chance to get right with God and that chance might not be available next Sunday. Strains of “Just as I Am”, and “Footsteps of Jesus”, ring through my head even today. I am yet another individual that can still quote most of the Baptist hymnal from memory.
In putting together my own code and meaning of the universe, it was necessary to wade through some of the theatrics and shock value of my instruction from the pulpit and combine this learning with other lessons that I had picked up. Over time it became increasingly clear to me that Christ had only put out a couple of rules: “Love your God, and love your neighbor as yourself.” The rest of the rules I was becoming suspicious of and wondered how many of them we had invented for ourselves. I not so quickly (but finally) took this to be in-line with what my dad had been trying to teach me for most of my cognitive years. Love your neighbor. All of them. As you would yourself.


I had taken a break from youth choir practice. We were getting ready for a tour to several churches around the Southeast and so practice time was at a premium. In my town since there wasn’t a whole lot else to do, no one complained too much to having a practice at 2:00 in the middle of the week. Most likely I would have been in the garden anyway and the choir loft was a lot cooler. I was looking forward to the trip as we were going to both Nashville and New Orleans. I had never been to either place and already had grand visions of what these two foreign countries might be like. I assumed that people there spoke English, although I had been warned not to expect too much clarity from the Cajuns. We were scheduled for both Opryland and Bourbon Street and I could hardly wait. We had been told repeatedly that this was not going to be a “fun” trip, but a trip in which we were going to serve as ambassadors for Christ, bringing his message through song, to the masses of heathens that awaited us. It struck me as odd at the time that the only places that we were performing were at churches like ours, and I wondered about their heathen count. Also I remember thinking I was pretty sure that Christ would not have minded our choir having at least some fun. As long as we were going to be there anyway.
A lot of serious thoughts were going through my head that day as I sat out on the front steps of the church. Or at least I supposed them to be serious. How would I help really? I would not forget the words or the music, but what if some of this unsaved, doomed, and assumedly unrepentant, heathen mass needed some real help? How was I going to field that one? What did all of this mean in the big scheme of things? Was a road trip really just a road trip?
I was trying to sort through some of these questions when I saw a man on a bike approach. He didn’t appear to be in very great shape. I judged him to be in about his mid thirties. He may have never shaved in those three decades. His hair was matted with sweat and the next time he washed his hair would be the first time. He smelled pretty bad too. He was wearing an old army fatigue jacket that was more black than green. Oil stains, dirt other unknown substances had changes the color way beyond it original scheme. It was ragged and you could almost make out the name tag that was sewn over the pocket. I am pretty sure that it said “Christopher” although he never confirmed this and it never came up in the conversation later. His pants were torn and had been blue jeans at one time. He was wearing an old JC Penny dress shirt of a really awful plaid vintage. It was long sleeved with a pocket that was crammed full of folded papers. I remember that it was missing the top two buttons and I could easily see he “wife-beater” tee under the shirt. His shoes looked like a pair of old Chuck Taylor all-stars. The strings had been broken several times and been tied back together just as many times. It was a typical day in South Georgia- meaning it was well over 100 degrees – and he was sweating profusely as he pumped his bike up the street to where I was sitting. I could not figure out why anyone would be wearing so many clothes (smelly ones at that) in that heat.
His bike had been a marvel at one time. It was a Schwinn tourister but the years had taken their toll. The stranger had done what he could to keep it in repair, but the elements had obviously done some damage. Rust showed on most of the frame and the handle bars were slightly bent. The chain did seem to be recently oiled and the bike did not squeak as he approached. The most interesting feature of the bike was the large baskets that he had rigged over the rear wheel and over the handlebars. There was also a big old Bozo the Clown horn with a squeeze bulb mounted in the middle of the handlebars. The baskets were packed with all sorts of things. Clothing, books, papers of unknown content and a sleeping bag were items that were readily visible. He squeezed the horn as he pulled up to where I was sitting, assaulting me with a comical blast of AAHHH- OOOOO- GAAHS.
I looked at the rider, not knowing what to say. His unshaven face flashed a crooked smile, as he dismounted at the foot of the steps. His brown eyes flashed, not unkindly, as we sat there more or less sizing each other up. Neither of us spoke a word for a moment; me having no idea where to begin a conversation with a vagrant on wheels and he choosing to keep his own counsel for the time being.
“Hi there.” At last communication began. His voice was not what I expected. It was rich and if two words could be an indication, he sounded intelligent. Of all the homeless drifters I had ever talked to (incidentally there was no drifting allowed in this town) this man seemed different. It was the eyes I believe, thinking about it now. They pulled a person into them in an effort to see what was going on behind them.
More silence. It was shaping up as a contest. Who could talk next and more importantly what would be said. From his first utterance it somehow seemed apparent that this was a man that valued economy in speech. I momentarily wondered if we were going to do this thing telepathically. After an indeterminate period of time – perhaps no more than 2 minutes, perhaps 15 – I cracked the silence.
“Can I help you?” It was what came to mind. He looked like he might need help. I could not readily accept that he had pedaled from God knows where just to have a conversation with me on the front steps of the church.
“Perhaps. Perhaps I can help you.” This did not strike me as a real possibility that afternoon. How this cycling vagrant was going to assist me was beyond any scenario I could imagine. I flashed back on the things that had been going through my mind just before the stranger’s arrival. This might be a chance to help. For starters it appeared that a hot shower might be useful to the man. Maybe a washing machine to take some of the road dust off those rags he was wearing. Maybe even a bite to eat. I suggested this to the stranger and asked what he thought of the idea. He simply smiled and nodded his thanks.
I took off in a flash back inside the church. I thought that I had finally come across a real-life application for the lessons of my faith to this point in life. I knew what my dad would say. He would have been proud and encouraged my efforts. It was if all at once I had been anointed as the head of my own personal relief agency and was on the verge of my first major aid mission in darkest Africa. I was excited, happy and a little apprehensive. I mean, I really didn’t know this man. I had heard a total of two spoken words come out of his mouth. But he needed help. That much was clear to me. And I seemed to be in a position where I could help.
I sprinted towards the pastor’s office full of hope and excitement. I had no idea why this was making me feel so good. I did feel good. I was going to be able to do something that mattered. I had no real thoughts about helping to change this man’s life, but for the day I thought that I could make a difference. Even a hot shower and a bologna sandwich seemed like a big improvement. For some reason it seemed that this stranger approved of the offer of help. This made the mission as important to me then as it seems trivial now recalling it.
No one was in the office. I raced back up to the choir room. No one there. Back down to the kitchen; again no one. Only a short time ago there had been 25 or so youth, a choir director and a preacher. Stumped, I started back outside to the front of the church where I discovered where everyone had gone.
At first I was elated to have someone to share my discovery with. Shamefully, this elation turned to irritation in a flash as it dawned on me that I wouldn’t be able to lay out my plans for good works to the preacher prior to a crowd forming. I guess somehow I was still operating on the thesis that this would earn me an extra swimming pool in heaven – or at least some extra brownie points.
This elation instantly turned to confusion, then anger as I approached close enough to hear the preacher speak. At first I thought he was expressing some routine concerns over the man’s condition and asking how we could help him out. This did not match with the expression on his face which appeared to be reddening in anger. Nor with the color of his face, which was a deep red, or the volume of his voice which was approaching levels previously reserved for the last 10 minutes on Sunday morning.
“Get off the property. If you aren’t gone in the next 2 minutes I will have you escorted out of town by the police.” This was shouted by the red-faced, sweating, man that I had up to this point believed to be our church’s spiritual leader. He spoke as if he were exorcizing a demon and he looked scared. I expected a shout of “Satan be gone!” to come out of his mouth. That is the only explanation I could come up with later. His fear I mean. The fear of the unknown or the plain different “I’m not like you are” type. The other kids that were there along with the choir director were stock still, many of them looking at the ground. It was like someone had been shot and nobody really knew how to act. In many ways it was a surreal setting. We were afraid of a poor man on a bicycle and were banishing him from the town. If we had a stake handy we might have burned him.
“We don’t need your kind here. Go somewhere else. Go anywhere else- just go.” With that announcement he stalked off brushing the front of his suit and straightening his tie as he went, presumably to call the law.
“Wait a minute.” I said. “He just wants something to eat. And maybe a bath. He’s not a bad person. He’s just kind of dirty.”
“Young man, if I need your help I will ask for it. One more word from you and I will have your father on the phone to take care of you.” He resumed his retreat to the office, giving me a parting glance of what looked to be pure hatred. Maybe fear. Maybe loathing, maybe shame – maybe all those things mixed together. I don’t know. It was an ugly look that I still remember today. I have thought about that look many times since and I can’t say that I have ever determined what was at the core of it. But I have determined that it was the look of man, that for at least one time in his life, exposed himself for what he was and did not like what he saw when it was brought to the light of day. My previous anger turned to pity.
I looked ashamedly at the man, but it was instantly OK. He mounted up gave me a wave and maybe what could pass for a winsome smile and began pedaling off. The Bozo horn sounded one more time and we were left to wonder what we had just seen and done. Or not done.
I wondered for a long time about who this guy was. He was probably just what he appeared to be: some one down on their luck pedaling around on a bicycle going no where in particular, looking for a free meal along the way. Maybe it was because I was young and trying to sort things out, but I always wanted him to be something more –something special; something other than a bum. I had wanted to say that I helped someone instead of nearly getting them locked up. But it didn’t work out that way. The preacher never said anything about that day and I didn’t ask. I guess he adjusted to his demons and learned to live with them the way we all do sooner or later. He moved on not too long after that day to another church in another town, and I sometimes wonder if it had anything to do with that incident in front of the church and his apparent lack of love for his fellow cycler through life.
I learned something important that day though. It was apparently true what they say about charity beginning at home. What I learned that afternoon was that it apparently stayed there as well.

 

 

Copyright © 2004 Mark A Stuart
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"