I spent the morning offering my time to a local food bank that gives food to needy families in town. And that statement alone tells all…
“Offering my time” is such a statement of privilege, from a voice implying that all those at the food bank were blessed to have me there this morning, that my time is so incredibly valuable that for me to “stoop” and give to those who are in need was the biggest sacrifice someone of my lofty stature could offer.
And I could not have been more wrong.
In fact, my heart does not want to use the phrase “offering my time”, but my fingers typed it anyway, indicating something on a deeper level that is hidden perhaps from even my inmost being.
The reality is, people were blessed this morning. I saw such a collection of people, from the 50-year old white man with tattered clothes to the most adorable young Hispanic children, full of life and delight at acquiring a new soccer ball (there is a section at the food bank for clothes and toys), to the well dressed African-American ladies who held their heads high and carried themselves with the dignity of someone who was not too proud to go to the shelter for food.
And the one most blessed this morning was me.
Let me tell you a little of the background story: I own a small start-up coffee business. Our aim is to use the profits we make from selling coffee to go back in to the community and bless the people of the fine town we live in. To date, we have donated thousands and thousands of pounds of food to this very food bank.
But I have not had the chance to actually donate my time to the food bank since this business has been going. All I had to offer was a check each month…
Now, please don’t get me wrong. That check is something I am incredibly proud of. I am following my dream of using a capitalistic system to line not my own pockets, but to better the lives of so many right here in our own community. I cannot tell you the sense of satisfaction gained from doing this, knowing that countless families have food on their table each night in part because of what I have been able to do with the coffee business.
But the satisfaction goes only so far after a while.
What is missing with a check is the faces, the names, the smiles. What is missing with a check is the family carrying armloads of grocery bags and trying to find the room to put them in their car.
For their car may very well double as their home.
What is missing with a check is the gratitude of everyone as they walk out with ample supplies of food.
What is missing with the check is the reality that over half of the people offering their time to volunteer at the food bank, serving the needy, are homeless themselves.
Over half of the people offering their time to serve at the food bank are homeless themselves.
Notice: these are the ones “offering their time”, not me. These are the ones with the dignity. These are the ones who get their hands dirty, serving those within the community who are less fortunate than they.
Serving those who are less fortunate than they…
Where have we missed it as a society?
Since when is earning more money the supposed pinnacle of living?
Why is it that cities pass measures trying to “eliminate the problem of homelessness” by sending squad cars around at night, “encouraging” the homeless to leave the city?
I am proud of the city I live in. There is a good-sized homeless population. And the city I live in is one of the most affluent in the area.
Homeless.
Affluent.
Disconnected.
Now, there are those in this fine city I live in who have obtained the understanding that wealth is for others, not for individuals themselves. In fact, the building that houses the food bank was given as a donation, purchased by a local corporation, as a gift to the community.
The owner of that company understands that there is more to wealth than self-indulgence. The owner of that company has set an example for others in our community to follow.
And they do follow.
Anyone who has been around affluence knows that charitable giving is a part of an individual’s “overall financial plan”—that charitable donations are used as a means of lowering a wealthy person’s taxable income, making it appear to the IRS that they have earned less than they really have. It is a perfectly legal practice, since the government wants to promote charitable giving, and therefore offers a tax incentive to do so.
There is much good that occurs from writing a check.
Countless charities have done incredible good in their communities, and in the global community as a whole, as a direct result of people writing a check.
Thank God for those people! And I think we would agree the world could use more of these!
But when all is said and done, there still exists a disconnect.
The person writing the check doesn’t know the names or the faces of the people that check is benefiting.
The people benefiting don’t know the name or the face of the one giving.
And the tragic thing is, I think we all prefer it that way.
It is easier.
Easier to stay in our bubble of comfort rather than have that bubble constantly burst by real life itself.
For when we allow ourselves to be conveniently isolated, insulated from the names, from the stories behind the eyes of the hurting, we feel contented that what we’re giving is enough. After all, if we were to really engage “those people”, we might feel compelled to give more (whether more money, more time, more resources), and the plain truth is that it is uncomfortable to do so.
If I were to give more of my money, how can I afford the nicer car that I feel I need?
If I were to give more of my time, when would there be time for movies, or video games, or watching my favorite TV shows?
It is truth that in America, we all feel “strapped”: strapped for cash, strapped for time, strapped for energy. But what if, by agreeing to give something sacrificially—not out of our extra but rather out of our excess, we were to budget the money, or schedule the time, to give? Sure it’s a bit uncomfortable, but that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?
There were people blessed at the food bank this morning, but I feel none was blessed more than me. As I shook hands with real people, who had real problems, with real needs, and real hunger, it made me hungry as well.
Hungry to make a greater impact.
Hungry to offer more— more money, more time, more resources.
When I saw the adorable little children, brother and sister, with the sister still in her pajamas (they were dirty) and the brother in clothes that didn’t fit (the shirt was down to his knees and the pants were rolled up considerably at the cuffs), something inside me stirred.
Something inside said, with all the passion I could muster:
This
Is
Not
Right.
Children should not live lives of such poverty that it will take them over a year before they grow into their clothes, while my children’s dressers overflow with clothes that fit them now.
Children should not live lives of such poverty that they have to get cast-away toys while mine have an entire room in the house devoted to toys.
Children should not live lives of such poverty that they would go hungry, while my kids throw excess food from their plates and on to the ground.
The heartbreaking thing is that this is not a picture of a third world country, but of people in our own neighborhoods, in our own communities.
We try to ignore them, sweep them under the community’s rug, so to speak, because we are afraid.
Afraid that, once we get to know their names, then we are somehow responsible for taking care of them.
Afraid that, once we see their face, we just might remember them.
Afraid that, the second we see their condition, we may very well feel guilty about our own surplus.
But what if this fear were overcome, and instead moved us to action?
What if we were willing to have our bubbles of comfort burst, if only for a single morning, in order that good deeds might increase?
What if we were willing to search out some local charities in our own neighborhoods, and ask to take a tour, or to find out when they have volunteer hours?
It just might move us to act.
It just might move us to start writing some checks.
Better yet, it might move us to start volunteering our time on a regular basis.
And even better still, it just might move us to start walking with our heads up and our eyes open, noticing those around us who share the exact same humanity as we, whose circumstances are a bit more unfortunate than ours, and we just might take the time to find out their name, to remember their face, to hear some of their story.
And in doing so, as the fabric of our communities begins to become more interlaced, we may just find a bit of our own humanity, our own personal dignity, restored face by face, name by name, in the process…
