His face still haunts me…like it was yesterday. Walking along Ross Avenue, in front of the Cathedral of the Virgin of Guadalupe in downtown Dallas, two strangers – a man and a woman, no older than me – approached. I was a 44-year-old Caucasian, swimming against a sea of darker faces. It was one of the hottest summers on record in this part of Texas, and – being somewhat new to the area – we were inclined to take our nine-year-old daughter to Fair Park for anything kid-related…anything air-conditioned. I’d left my wife and daughter there for a brief time, and was walking toward my parked car, to retrieve them. Suddenly, two strangers approached.
“Excuse me, sir” the man said, nearly breathless. It was, after all, over one-hundred degrees. “Could you possibly spare a little money to help us stay where we are a little longer? I start a new job this coming Monday, but we need a place to stay until my first paycheck.”
“Where are you staying now…?” I asked.
“At the Wayside Inn, somewhere over there” he pointed, in the direction of Fair Park. “Don’t think it’s that far, but the proprietor is really unfriendly on the phone. If we don’t give them some money today, we can’t stay. If we can’t stay, I don’t get the job.”
What was I to say…? I pulled out my wallet, and quickly recalled giving my wife what little cash was in it that morning, so she could entertain our daughter. Instead, I made a decision: to contact the motel where they were staying, and authorize payment on my credit card. They thanked me profusely; the husband offered to repay me. I told him, no need…said that I would be glad to call the place after returning home with my wife and daughter (before I had a cell phone). It was about 11:30 a.m.
At first, he seemed elated. Then, his head fell, and I could tell he didn’t believe me. I wasn’t sure I believed him, either; but in that moment, I was more concerned with my family than this desperate man and his wife. As I drove off, I saw them in the rearview mirror continue walking – heads down, bathed in sweat in searing heat of early July.
When we arrived home at 4:30 that afternoon – five hours after I’d found them suffering in the midday heat – I called the aforementioned motel. Indeed, the couple had found their way there, the manager acknowledged…waiting in the lobby, until he told them they’d have to leave if they couldn’t pay. Discouraged, certain – no doubt – that I had merely given them hope to get rid of them, the two sojourners left. They’d been gone fifteen minutes. I begged, demanded, scolded the motel proprietor to go find them, bring them back, and allow me to pay for a week of lodging. “Too late!” the proprietor barked, and hung up.
Much as I felt contempt toward the innkeeper for his callous disregard of their health and safety, I had to face one simple fact: this happened to them because of me…because of my own callous disregard for their safety and well-being. What was I to do? What role did I play in the worst possible outcome of entrusting oneself to the kindness of strangers? The Roman Catholic religion, into which I was born and raised, teaches us clearly and unwaveringly to become hope for the hopeless, to welcome the stranger. But I don’t require any religion to teach me basic right from wrong. No…for that, all I need do is reflect upon Jesus’ new commandment: “Do unto others as you would have done unto you.” By that yardstick, I failed my creator, and I will answer for that.
Again, this past week, I was reminded of that fact upon opening an old journal of poetry, stumbling upon an unfinished poem from 1999. “Samaritan” is that poem, and compels me to tell you the story behind the poem.
“So, Carl,” you may wonder, “why this sudden expurgation – this attack of convenient conscience?” “How do you even know that he wasn’t playing you…just trying to get money from you for drugs, or whatever?” I used to think that way, too. On that day, I was plenty suspicious of his motives, of what he might do. But think about it…he didn’t argue when I offered to pick up their room tab. He didn’t ask for more, or say, “Just give me the money.” Rather, they walked back in scorching, hundred-degree heat and, according to the proprietor, sat waiting patiently…for help that didn’t come in time. So…why am I telling you this?
Humbly, to suggest: be better than me.
When God comes to us, He doesn’t choose the most convenient times, the easiest parts of our schedules. His children walk in suffering every moment of the day, desperately gasping for air on ICU ventilators; homeless, due to jobs that evaporate in our season of Covid-19; people now resorting to stealing food to survive; healthcare professionals contemplating ending their own lives in despair from watching patients lose theirs. God’s children hope for a tomorrow in which they suffer a little less, through the kindness of strangers and angels…not the indifference of “well-intentioned” men.
Now, in cruelest irony, we are masked and “socially distanced” in this Christmas of our Covid discontent. How apropos that Christians celebrate the birth of a baby whose parents found refuge only in a livestock stable; that Jews celebrate Hannukah to commemorate liberation from the Greeks. We must liberate ourselves from fear of one another, and learn to see ourselves as deeply flawed, but ultimately redeemable – through helping our brothers and sisters of all faiths, all traditions, all cultures.
The Book of James in the New Testament says, “Faith, without works, is dead.” I believe this is the single most underrated verse in the entire new Testament, amplifying everything Jesus spoke of in terms of changing our world through loving acts of service. This Christmas, my dear readers, look past the twinkling lights, the commercialism, the sadness of solitary confinement as we await a hopefully Covid-less new year. Seize the opportunity to help Him where you find Him…in the face of someone hard to love.
On that suffocating day in July, twenty-one years ago, I met Jesus on the street in Dallas, emitting a desperate cry for help…and I neither bound His wounds, nor provided what He needed in the moment – respite from the heat, hope for tomorrow. I was not present to Him, nor willing to believe that the only thing that matters is love. No, I left Him there – well-intentioned as I may have been – and didn’t minister to His needs. On that day, His name was Sam Watkins. And I have been searching for Him every day since.
