Confession of shame
About half an hour ago, walking down Brasenose ave, I passed a man asking for change. He was sitting with his back against the wall, holding a tattered paperback. I passed within two feet of him, heard him gently ask for a few pence. I passed within two feet of him, heard his voice, noticed his presence, and ignored it. I averted my eyes and walked by.
A few yards further, it occured to me that I had passed a human being. I felt a slight twinge of guilt. I honestly haven't a single pence, and if I had, I still wouldn't have given it to him. I want to make it clear that this is not an issue of giving money to beggars. It is an issue of giving love to people. My stomach turned over, but I kept walking and arguing to myself why it would have been pointless to stop. I knew it was a poor argument, I knew which side would win, and yet it was still nearly the end of the lane before I turned about and walked back.
I would so like to tell myself that I fixed the problem by turning around, but of course that is a blatant lie. It doesn't matter that I apologized for passing without even making eye contact, it doesn't matter that I sat down talked for a while afterwards, it doesn't matter at all because the problem is not that I passed a man sitting on a corner. The problem is that I didn't even recognize him as human. It never occurred to me, as I was passing him, to consider what it would feel like to be passed over as less important than the pavement.
Again, to clarify, this has nothing to do with people asking for money. This has nothing to do with the proper responses to begging, or the ethics of charity, or the causes of poverty. This is about something very deep inside me that is broken and ugly and gnarled. I like to ignore it. I like to pretend that nothing is broken, that this black mess does not exist. Every once in a while, though, someone forces me to recognize the dark scab of decay that is festering somewhere inside me, in a space that has rotted away with decay and anger and self-absorption and hatred. I think this space must be somewhere near my stomach, or perhaps my lungs, because the moment I am made aware of it, I suddenly feel as if I might vomit, and I struggle to gasp for air.
God, forgive me for my callousness, my selfishness. Forgive me for neglecting your creation and allowing it fall into such a state of decay. Thank you that your love for others is not dependant on my ability to show it, but that you love without restraint. Thank you that, though you need me not, you still desire and allow me to partake in your outpouring of love. Destroy me, and fill the absense of my own self with yours, that I might better learn to love and serve.
A few yards further, it occured to me that I had passed a human being. I felt a slight twinge of guilt. I honestly haven't a single pence, and if I had, I still wouldn't have given it to him. I want to make it clear that this is not an issue of giving money to beggars. It is an issue of giving love to people. My stomach turned over, but I kept walking and arguing to myself why it would have been pointless to stop. I knew it was a poor argument, I knew which side would win, and yet it was still nearly the end of the lane before I turned about and walked back.
I would so like to tell myself that I fixed the problem by turning around, but of course that is a blatant lie. It doesn't matter that I apologized for passing without even making eye contact, it doesn't matter that I sat down talked for a while afterwards, it doesn't matter at all because the problem is not that I passed a man sitting on a corner. The problem is that I didn't even recognize him as human. It never occurred to me, as I was passing him, to consider what it would feel like to be passed over as less important than the pavement.
Again, to clarify, this has nothing to do with people asking for money. This has nothing to do with the proper responses to begging, or the ethics of charity, or the causes of poverty. This is about something very deep inside me that is broken and ugly and gnarled. I like to ignore it. I like to pretend that nothing is broken, that this black mess does not exist. Every once in a while, though, someone forces me to recognize the dark scab of decay that is festering somewhere inside me, in a space that has rotted away with decay and anger and self-absorption and hatred. I think this space must be somewhere near my stomach, or perhaps my lungs, because the moment I am made aware of it, I suddenly feel as if I might vomit, and I struggle to gasp for air.
God, forgive me for my callousness, my selfishness. Forgive me for neglecting your creation and allowing it fall into such a state of decay. Thank you that your love for others is not dependant on my ability to show it, but that you love without restraint. Thank you that, though you need me not, you still desire and allow me to partake in your outpouring of love. Destroy me, and fill the absense of my own self with yours, that I might better learn to love and serve.
0 Response to "Confession of shame"
Post a Comment