Rick the homeless man did turn up again, and seemed bemused that anyone should have worried about where he was. Over the time since I and other people in the parish have dealt with him a lot, and the network of 'support' has included a gentleman from the local King's Church as well as us. Rick had a tempestuous time with his girlfriend who had problems of her own, and eventually they separated. He has managed to find Joe, who lives nearby in sheltered housing and tends to sit smoking at the bus stop, and Irish Alan who has one of the almshouses on the other side of the main road, one of our local alcoholics. People with disrupted lives tend to attract one another. I've disbursed a not inconsiderable amount of money in buying food and meals for Rob, and subsidising Joe's chain-smoking, prompted by stories about gaps in benefit provision and spending too much cash on the phone talking to errant girlfriends. The coup de grace the other day was Mad Trevor phoning me up and saying he'd broken the seat of his car and so couldn't drive it, so could I get him some groceries for the Bank Holiday weekend?
I tend to get a bit resentful, I'm afraid, that I am the one publicly identifiable as the source of charity and unable to escape being targeted as such, especially when I'm completely unqualified actually to help people in any very useful way. I'm a priest, not a social worker, debt counsellor or housing advisor. There have been mornings when I've come down the hill to say Morning Prayer and as soon as I turn the corner either Rick or Joe has got up from the bus stop seat to come and ask me for money. The sad fact is that I'm not in a position to expend time working out what is or isn't true or justified in their stories, and haven't got the expertise or space available to help such individuals sort themselves out, if they were indeed capable of doing so. All I can do is put a cap on it and say, No, sorry, I've given out enough this week.
Yesterday all three, Rick, Joe and Irish Alan, were sat on the sofa at the back of church while we said Evening Prayer, so the Offices have become not so much a time of quiet meeting with God as one of somewhat anxiously waiting the next encounter with need, which is something I have to get used to. I made myself remember that the church is not my house, but God's, and he delights in the company of the lost and disrupted, no matter how difficult I may find it.
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This post reminds me of Habbakuk - 'I lift my eyes up, to the mountains, where does my help come from? My help comes from you, maker of heaven, creator of the earth......'
ReplyDeleteNot from the local vicar who gave me some money. Too often we expect others to meet our short falls, and some times they do - but the real help comes from pointing one to helping oneself - not a pleasant or easy lesson, but the best help often comes from within. Evening Prayer has the three for company - may they find the hope and future and dreams that will set them on the path to live their lives to the full.
The church too often rejects those that are in need but to have somewhere to 'be' to be smiled at, to be part of is greater than any gift of money.