A pre-Lenten meditation

Bring forth the kingdom of mercy,
Bring forth the kingdom of peace,
Bring forth the kingdom of justice,
Bring forth the city of God.
—Hymnal: Worship Book, #226

After a Sunday morning worship service that included the above song and invited us to respond to the poor around us in the way of Jesus, it was surprisingly easy for me to walk past the slightly shabby young man sitting on the bench in the shadowy hallway leading from our meeting place in the gym, past the Lutheran sanctuary (where the service was still in progress), to the pastor’s office, where I was intent on picking up Lenten resource materials.

Just another “stray person” off the street in Winnipeg, Manitoba’s North End, briefly sharing our worship space, hoodie-covered head bowed, body leaning forward, no eye contact necessary, probably hungover from alcohol or drugs, catching a bit of churchly warmth on a cold February morning, after a visit to the men’s washroom in the church.
Nothing new in that when you worship in an inner-city setting as we had recently begun to do again after a decade elsewhere.

I hurried past him, accomplished my brief errand, locked the door with worship materials in hand, turned around, and there he was, standing right in front me. A tall dark figure, illumined by the bright winter sunshine streaming through the high window behind him. Long black hair framing a wind-weathered but still youthful face. Eyes downcast.

Startled, my heart skipped a beat as he moved closer, his left hand jerking toward the inside of his open ski-jacket, while news clips of recent random shootings in the area flitted through my mind.

“I’m wondering if you could help me,” he began, speaking softly and hesitantly, still looking downward. “It’s cold outside and—”

Ah, I thought with relief. He just wants a handout, already planning my response to the familiar “spiel.”

But his next words surprised me.

“It’s hard to zip up this jacket with one hand,” he said, still gesturing toward his jacket, which I now noticed had a half-empty sleeve on the right side. “If you could just get the zipper started, then I can do the rest.”

“Sure,” I said, laying down my sheaf of Lenten resources as I stepped closer to him, feeling a bit nervous and wishing I had brought my glasses as I fumbled awkwardly with the mechanics of inserting the zipper pin into the little slider box on his black ski-jacket from a frontal position. “I’ve never been very good at this,” I murmured with a laugh, suddenly remembering how I used to struggle with the zippers on my own sons’ parkas when they were little.

Then, as the zipper caught hold at last and the coils slipped together smoothly as I pulled the slide tab almost up to his chin, we looked at each other and smiled. And I noted his eyes were brown and clear. No scent of alcohol anywhere.

“That will feel a lot warmer now,” he said as he finished the job, tucked in his scarf, and both of us continued on our way, pleased by this brief and mutually satisfying human encounter in our church entrance.

Almost like a “city of God” moment, right in the heart of a city where poverty, violence and racism abound, I thought, humming the above song as I walked back to the gym to participate in our monthly fellowship meal.

Some time later, as I read the “Shaped by Testing” Lenten materials, based on Jesus’ temptation in the desert, I remembered that young man again and wondered if this experience had been a “test” for me and whether I could have responded better.

For a start, I shouldn’t have assumed he was hungover just because of the way he was sitting. Perhaps his bowed-over posture meant he was praying along with Lutherans. And shouldn’t I have gone the second mile? Offered him some cash, for clearly, he could have used it. Or even invited him to join our congregation in our fellowship meal?

But it didn’t occur to me at the time.

And on second thought, perhaps it was better the way it was, to simply respond to his specific spoken need as Jesus tended to do, rather than assuming, from a have and have-not position, that he needed more from me or that I had more to give.
After all, as Jesus told the tempter, “one does not live by bread alone.”

Leona Dueck Penner is a member of Aberdeen Evangelical Mennonite Church in Winnipeg, Manitoba.