Fingerprints in the Cold
It was a bitterly cold night as we walked down the streets of Baltimore, MD, just before Christmas. Bundled up in our cold weather gear, we headed off to one of the fine restaurants along Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. A damp wind blew off the water, creating a face-numbing chill for the entire three-block walk. I repurposed my white, furry tree skirt and used it as a cape around my shoulders. Surprisingly, it was quite warm and protected me well from the frigid temperature.
While our gaze was straight ahead, we couldn’t help but notice people huddled in the corner of the alcoves at the entrance of buildings. They were dirty and wore tattered clothes. A few had on stocking caps and gloves. Some were in a frozen stance: knees bent, back hunched over and head hanging down, motionless. My heart sank at such a sight. It was so hard to walk by and ignore them, as if we didn’t notice their suffering.
Every once in a while, one would look up as we passed a group of three or four. None of them were begging. They just seemed to be in a world of their own, isolated from the rest of humanity. Most were simply trying to stay out of the cold. The contrast to our warmly clad selves on our way to a warm building to indulge in a holiday feast was sharply noticeable and hit me hard. I was suddenly reminded of the parable about Lazarus and the rich man.
A man who dressed only in the finest of clothes and ate only the finest of foods completely ignored a poor man sitting outside of his gate. Lazarus was not only hungry, he was covered with open sores. He spent most nights out in the cold, hoping that when the rich man passed by, he would offer him something to eat. Lazarus would have been happy with the scraps left over from the rich man’s table, but the man never once acknowledged him. It never crossed his mind to offer Lazarus help that might alleviate some of his suffering. Even the dogs showed more compassion to Lazarus than the rich man did and began to lick his open wounds. Eventually, Lazarus died. Although his body lay in a crumpled heap just outside of the gate, his spirit was escorted to Heaven by an army of angels.
When the rich man died, his story was quite different from Lazarus’. Instead of being taken to Heaven on the wings of angels, he was banished to a dark place where he lived in constant torment. He begged for relief and for someone to go warn his family, lest they too, end up in this place of eternal agony. But once we die and cross over the vast chasm between earth and Heaven, we cannot go back. The rich man received all the good things during his life on earth. Now it was Lazarus’s turn to receive all the good things for eternity in Heaven.
On our way back to our hotel after our meal, many of the same people we saw hours earlier were still there. This time, we could no longer simply walk by and do nothing. They were cold, hungry, and homeless. Tim handed a few of them some cash, and wished them Merry Christmas, but such a small gift would do little to address the harsh realities of their lives. I knew we should be doing more.
Jesus calls us to become His fingerprints of grace to all people in all seasons, especially to those who are poor and homeless. “As you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.” (Matthew 25:40) When we feed the hungry and provide adequate clothing for those who are without, it’s as if we’re serving Jesus himself. From Lazarus who sat outside the rich man’s gate to the people who hang out on the streets of Baltimore and beyond, the poor and homeless will always be with us.
God, have mercy on us. Lord, have mercy on us.
