As I gave the cop my insurance information and he filed his report, I wondered aloud what the thief could have been thinking, to risk so much for so little, and in the middle of the day on a well-trafficked two-way street, no less. The cop didn’t have any theories, or if he did, he kept them to himself.

The tape on the hospital’s surveillance camera across the street didn’t catch anything, and for all I know, the thief got off scot free. Of course, he didn’t get much. He got a couple of pockets of change -- ten, maybe twenty bucks. He got my phone charger and my iPod connector cable. He jacked up my CD player but couldn’t take it with him. And apparently he got something black from my trunk, though after taking a look in there -- laden as it is with lingering odds and ends like a boogie board and tennis rackets and my grad school graduation gown from the summer of 2009 – it beats me what he got.

I know he got something from my trunk, though, because as I left for the autoglass place for a temporary window (which, as I came to learn, is nothing more than glorified shrinkwrap), the woman who had called the cops, a neighbor I’d seen before but never met, came out and told me the story. She described a Hispanic guy in his forties, who she spotted through her curtains stuffing his pockets frantically. “He didn’t seem right,” she told me. “I don’t know if he was on drugs or something, but he wasn’t right.”

He wasn’t right.

In the time that’s passed since the break-in I’ve been wondering about this man, this thief who wasn’t right. And that initial question – what was he thinking? – has evolved. Sure, I still wonder why he took the risk. But I wonder more than that. I wonder what was going through his head when he put his elbow or his hammer or his fist through the glass. When he saw the Franciscan cross hanging from the rearview mirror, Christ the innocent one being crucified for the sin of the world – for his sin and mine – did the thief have second thoughts? In his quest for change in the center console, stuffing his pockets with pennies and nickels and quarters and dimes, he found another cross, a Celtic one, which he left on the passenger seat amid glass and a few straggling pennies. I wonder what he thought when he saw a recent copy of La Voz Hispana on the backseat, a local Spanish language newspaper he very well may read when he’s at home, wherever home for him happens to be, if he has one. And of course, I have to wonder what he was thinking, when he saw it in the back: my VHS copy of My Oh My!, that utterly amazing, tear-jerking portrayal of the Seattle Mariners’ magical 1995 season, which I recently rediscovered in my parents’ basement.

I don’t know what the guy was thinking, or if he was at that moment capable of very much thought at all. I don’t know what has driven him to this, or who, for that matter. I don’t know where he lays his head at night, if he lays his head anywhere in particular. I don’t know where he was headed when he took off running, pockets jangling, between the hospital and the cemetery. I don’t know where he’ll end up, or where he is even now.

Since the break-in, while driving in a car suddenly drafty, devoid of music except for the flapping of the glorified shrinkwrap, I think of this man and of myself and I keep coming back to one thing. As much as I’d like to get my stuff back and be able to listen to music again and not have to worry about rain getting on the upholstery; as much as I’d like to think I’m better than this guy and that he’s a lost cause; as much, as much, as much, I keep coming back to one haunting, sobering, ultimately amazing thought: There but for the grace of God go I.

And so I pray. I pray believing that the prayer is already being answered all around us, every day, even when all we see is a disregarded cross and a million pieces of broken glass. The prayer is simple.

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.
Lord, have mercy on us.
Amen.

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Funding Affected by Decreased Refugee Arrivals Here in Lancaster

The United States has recently added a new security check for refugees to pass prior to entering the country. This new check is important in order to maintain the security of our country, but it also has caused a long and unpredictable delay in refugee processing, thereby decreasing the number of arrivals to the US for months to come. Funding for the resettlement program depends almost solely on the arrival of these refugees. Drastically decreased numbers results in drastically decreased funds.

The future of the refugee resettlement program at Church World Service/Lancaster is uncertain. Staff hours are currently being cut in order to make our funds last as long as possible. While Church World Service hopes to avoid laying off members of the Lancaster branch, it may be unavoidable if sufficient funds cannot be obtained to support administrative costs.

Refugee arrivals will pick up again and our capacity to resettle them must still be in place. CWS/Lancaster needs funding to keep dedicated personnel on the job albeit in a reduced capacity. While CWS/Lancaster continues to resettle refugees despite these changes, the last minute delays and cancellations of arrivals caused by the new security check will cause a decrease in staff hours effective April 1st. Decreased staff at CWS will greatly affect the quality of care that the refugees who are being resettled in the area are given.

Please take this opportunity to give back to a program that may have benefitted you or a friend in some way, or simply to a ministry in which you have faith. No donation is too small, and all donations are tax deductible.

There are two ways to give a monetary donation:

Checks can be mailed to:

Church World Service
308 E. King St
Lancaster, PA 17602

or

donations can be made online

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In the mid to late twentieth century, much of the country experienced decades of urban flight. This was the result of a number of inter-related factors, including the federal government investing heavily in interstate highway systems rather than mass transit, some radical shifts in the types and quantities of jobs being created and being lost, and overall demographic evolution of the country. But the census data say that after three decades of decline, the population of Lancaster city (like other cities on similar trajectories) has now enjoyed a three decade resurgence. This is great news, and our mayor Rick Gray agrees:

"For a small urban area to grow in Pennsylvania, I think it says something about the quality of life in the city. It says something about the nature of the city — the beauty, the ability to get around easily, the amenities, the housing stock."

So if you live in Lancaster, congratulations. If you don't, what are you waiting for?

[Image credit: Freiman Stoltzfus]

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“Excuse me sir, can you spare some change?�

Just like that.

Then what?

If you’re like me, a lot is going through your mind: thoughts of supporting destructive habits, or making them lazy, or dehumanizing them, or maybe rationalizations: “I’m not rich� or “Okay, fine, I am rich but I’ve worked hard for what I have.� These all seem to coalesce in that moment of truth, along with some incredibly inconvenient verses from the Bible about sheep and goats and the real sin of Sodom and real worship and real religion, and how our so-called faith is worthless if we disregard real needs by spiritualizing them. It’s information overload. And if the Bible is true, the stakes are high.

This sort of thing has happened to me a lot lately. Last night I was on my way into the grocery store a few blocks away from my apartment and it was snowing. A man came up to me in the parking lot, showed me 90 cents in change, explained that his car broke down and that he needed money for a cab. I gave it to him. His name was Robert.

This evening, while walking home from work a man stepped out of the shadows and asked me for change. I apologized and said I didn’t have any. I did. It was a lie. I didn’t ask his name.

Why did I give ten bucks to Robert but left the nameless man on the sidewalk without as much as a dime? Why did I once buy a pair of train tickets for people I had just met but countless times have done my best to ignore or quickly refuse other, far simpler, requests? Why, while I'm at it, did I not tell Robert to hop into my car? Why didn't I take the nameless guy to Subway or McDonald's and ask him about his day? Why do I get so uncomfortable when people are so candid about their needs? Could it be that I've been conditioned to mask my own?

Now, I’ve read the books. I’ve studied Scripture. I’ve prayed about it, thought about it, discussed it here and there. I’ve taken classes in economics, community development, even theology of poverty, for crying out loud. I’ve absorbed a lot of information but still, every time someone asks me for money, it’s an instant, scrambled decision.

When I do give, I try to exchange names and a handshake - you know, to level the playing field, to keep the dignity. At times I've asked them to “pay it forward� when they can. Sometimes I bring Jesus into it - which seems like the right thing to do since he has everything to do with it - but doing so can also feel a bit forced and condescending, as if there are strings attached to grace.

When I don’t give, I try to avoid eye contact. If that fails, I pat my pocket, shrug, and act disappointed. I might pick up the pace, look busy, or think about how I can make up for it by reading my Bible, or by reminding myself that I have a degree in international development and will help plenty of other people soon enough.

While living in Cambodia I got to know a remarkable Dutch woman who embodies compassion, working for a Christian development organization and adopting several Cambodian kids over the years. Once I asked her what she does when a stranger on the street asks for change, which happens, incidentally, all the time. She said that each time, she just listens to the Holy Spirit and takes the next step, whatever it is. I believe her and slightly envy her, because to me, other voices tend to compete loudly in such moments, and the Holy Spirit line just seems like something I'd say as a good Christian cop-out.

Later, a friend in Lancaster told me he decided to contribute regularly to the rescue mission  downtown, and when asked for money he’d point people there. The idea was that this would eliminate the problem of not knowing where the money will go, while also not failing to meet real needs. It was a better approach than any I’d come up with, and a clear demonstration of my friend’s concern for those in need, but I worried that I'd just use the idea as a way of outsourcing compassion to professionals.

So, I pose the question: do you have a consistent approach in these situations, when you're put on the spot with a request for some change? If so, how did you get there? What experiences led you there? In all of the Bible’s teaching about money and greed and compassion, have you found a consistent pattern as it relates to this? How do you balance competing arguments for and against looking a stranger in the eye, reaching into your pocket, smiling, and giving them whatever you have?

And perhaps trickiest of all: how do you keep it rooted in love?

"Mommy, he poked me in the eye!" the girl screamed, tears streaking down her face.

"Say you're sorry," commanded the mother to her son sternly.

"Sorry," said the eye-poker with a tone that lacked earnestness.

"Say, 'I forgive you'."

"No," retorted the one with the tear-filled eyes as she walked away, sniffling, arms crossed. "I don't want to!"

It wasn't long until the family was called into the office to fill out their forms, but it sure seemed like a long time what with the eye-poking and screaming and relentless rebellion from the son each time his mother told him to sit down and shut up - which occured every ten seconds or so.

Once inside the office, they quieted down, and I was just able to make out a question from the youngest of them, the little girl whose tears had mostly stopped flowing.

"Who's that in the picture?" I heard her ask.

I knew which picture she was referring to because I had just been in the office a few minutes earlier and had given a moment's attention to the big picture on the wall of the man with the black beard, the white robe, the compassionate yet piercing eyes.

"It's Jesus," responded the mother, her tone having suddenly lost its edge.

"Is that really what he looks like?" asked the son.

"Yes," the mother said.

"How do they know?"

"Because that's what the Bible says he looks like."

The absurdity of the statement hit me, but I couldn't dwell on it too long because the conversation continued.

"Everyone has their own idea of what Jesus looks like," offered the woman behind the desk, who with a gold crucifix around her neck and fake red fingernails types clients' information into the computer day after day, week after week, year after year.

What struck me most about this whole fascinating episode was how the scene went from pandemonium one second to something miraculous that bordered on awe and reverence the next. The pandemonium ended (fleetingly, I must add) and awe and reverence took its place (if but for a moment). What made the difference? It was the face of Jesus.

For a split-second I was tempted to put down the book, walk over to them and tell them who Jesus really is, since I am a Christian and in my stream of the Christian faith we are taught to tell everyone we meet everything we know about Jesus, but then it struck me.

This Jesus in the picture on the plywood wall at the clothing bank, along with the pictures all of us have of Jesus on the walls of our hearts and minds, are all in some way representative of the real Jesus who was born in a cave out back, who grew up stubbing his toes and skinning his knees and wetting the bed, who got thirsty and hungry and tired, who healed the sick and raised the dead and told seemingly everyone with words both veiled and explicit that the Kingdom of God was at hand, who ultimately died on the cross and rose from the dead and ascended where he now sits at the right hand of the Father in Heaven - this Jesus, the real Jesus, the one we have so much yet to learn about, the one we have only begun to get to know, was the Jesus who said, "Come to me, all who are weary and weighed down, and I will give you rest." And also, "Let the little children come to me."

This morning at the clothing bank, I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the unremorseful eye-poking big brother and the unforgiving eye-poked little sister and the tired and edgy but trying-her-best single mother were the exact sorts of people to whom Jesus was and is saying, "Come to me." He's not calling those who have their act together. He's calling the messes. He's calling those with no clue what he looks like, just as he's calling those who think they have him all figured out. And that is really good news for all of us.