Why the Levite Crossed the Road

(Luke 10:29-37)

The first time it happened, I was sure I knew what was coming. I was at the church after most people had left, and a fellow wanted to talk to "one of the priests." The property chairperson, who'd been locking up, brought him to me, since I was "kind of like a priest." I sat down with him, ready for the song and dance, and was pleasantly surprised. He had a dream he was supposed to tell a priest. He wanted no money, no food, no pity. He just wanted to tell his dream so he could finish his quest.

It happened again today, same situation, only this time the man who came needed lots of time and lots of resources. I felt my stress level rocketing, for a couple reasons. One, in this church, I am not on staff. I don't have any discretionary fund, I don't have much sense of where the closest shelters and food sources and resources are. I never give out cash. I'm not a lot of practical help.

Two, it takes me back to a church office in downtown Miami, to my two years listening to long, drawn out, manipulative stories, all aimed at making me feel guilty so people could shake me down for what they wanted or needed. Not just occasionally, but people lined up at the door of the church, every day, every week. Story after story after story from people hardened from years on the street. At some point in Miami, I stopped caring about the stories. Too often they were told, not because the people felt a need to tell them, but because people felt a need to get something else, and the stories were just a well rehearsed tool.

I got to the point where I didn't care about the story. I just wanted to know what people needed. If I could help them find resources to get something, I would, regardless of the tale. If I couldn't find the resources, they had to go somewhere else.

There is a death of a certain level of compassion when people habitually shake you down. There is a loss of honesty, as people share horribly intimate things, simply as a means to an end.

The fellow today was nice enough. I was willing to help if I could when he walked in the door. I had to sit and listen to the wandering weave and dance of his story for the better part of an hour before he could hear that.

These days, for my work, I listen to people's stories every day. I listen with all the attention I have in me, because it is all about the story. Their need is the telling. They are not trying to get food or housing or cash from me. It is amazing privilege to share the telling.

I guess the song and dance of someone trying to convince you to give them resources feels kind of like prostitution, especially when they share painful memories and recent tragedies.

I wish we could just transact the actual request and supplying of food or shelter or whatever, without all the talk...and that they could share their stories as much or as little as they would with me, a stranger, because of the need of sharing a story, and that need alone.