A Lesson in Compassion

When helping people out, there is a fine line between being kind and being an enabler. I’m afraid I crossed the line Tuesday night.

As I was painting a room at church, a down-and-out young couple wandered into the building off the street. They asked if the church could put them up for the night. A wise benevolence committee long ago established a checklist that keeps our inner-city church from being an easy mark for anyone unaffiliated with the congregation looking for a handout. But in the need of the moment, I couldn’t recall any of its contents.

As I listened to the plea from the couple, I failed to follow the guidelines and fell prey to the heartstring notion that Jesus wanted me to help these folks. After all, I have the means and they don’t; surely the Lord would want me to be compassionate rather than hardhearted.

But I started to realize the folly of making a decision with my heart rather than my head as I pulled my car into the driveway of a nearby inexpensive motel.

“I can’t stay here,” the woman announced.

“Huh?” I responded.

She went on to explain that the proprietor thinks he can walk into a tenant’s room at any time. And besides, he refused to return a Precious Moment figurine of hers.

Oh.

Her companion suggested it would be OK, so in we went. The clerk at the desk took one look at the woman and said he couldn’t rent her a room. He suggested we try another budget motel down the street, which we did.

Everything seemed to go smoothly, even though my male passenger didn’t have any identification. Then the kind elderly woman behind the counter pulled out a notebook. She noted that the woman in front of her had stayed at the motel the previous week and caused a ruckus. An ambulance had been called and apparently there was an altercation with a police officer. At this point, I’m figuring out that the woman I’m trying to put up for the night believes most men are out to mistreat her.

“We can go somewhere else,” the young woman told the clerk.

By now I’m thinking I’m in the middle of a bad sitcom that may never end.

Thankfully, the clerk says she will rent a room this night — but there better not be any trouble.

The couple thanked me as we parted, and I made it clear that I, not the church, had paid for the room. This wasn’t out of pride, but rather embarrassment. By then I had seen enough red flags that I should have refused: the couples weren’t transients; they had lived in Springfield for years. They weren’t decrepit; they looked to be around 30 and in fairly good shape. It wasn’t a night of torrential rain; it was beautiful with a low around 65. Both admitted to receiving monthly government assistance checks, much of which likely is frittered away on addictive substances. And worst of all, they weren’t married as I first assumed. They had only known each other a couple of months, so I was paying for them to shack up!

As I drove away I felt that I had been taken, angry that I was out 43 bucks.

However, soon I stopped feeling sorry for myself and looked upon this man and woman with pity.

They have no discernable skills or education to earn an income in this depressed economy. And even if they do scam churches and individuals for a free night in a motel, there isn’t any future in that. What kind of life is it to not know where your next meal will come from or where you will sleep tonight?

Maybe providing one night’s comfort isn’t such an onerous act after all.

Bargains Before Our Eyes

My wife and I hadn’t been in an Aldi grocery store for decades, until last night. We went in an effort to find another way to cut spending. My earlier memories of Aldi consisted of a disorganized store of cluttered boxes full of junk and low-quality foods.

But that’s no longer the case, at least at the store where we shopped, which is only a few years old. I suppose we’ve become food snobs, preferring to shop for all-natural choices at inflated prices.

But imagine my surprise when I discovered natural trail mix, lean ground turkey, 100 percent juice, and name-brand fresh fruit and vegetables, all for a much lower price than at the grocery chain down the street, and certainly less than the health food store across town.

Selection is limited and some of the cool stuff isn’t stocked regularly, but we found a lot of healthy bargains at Aldi. It took us a while to get the hang of renting a shopping cart for a quarter and paying six cents for each paper sack to haul away the goods, but those are smart ways the store keeps costs down.

At six miles away, Aldi is the closest grocery store to our house. I think we’ll be making fewer trips to the health food store, which is 15 miles from where we live.

Marriage Is About Compromise

With our wood floor remodeling near completion, my wife Patty and I have spent a great deal of time moving furniture, tossing possessions we’ve saved over the years and generally “decluttering.” The wood floors make our rooms look larger, or perhaps it’s merely the fact that we have less stuff.

At first, Patty didn’t seem too wild about my blueprints for redesigning the rooms once wood floors replaced the old carpet. But she eventually got into the spirit of things and we went back and forth about what would go best where. We didn’t argue; we discussed, calmly.

Patty made a big concession in moving her treadmill from a prominent place in the living room into a spare bedroom. I permitted her to move the stereo to the other side of the living room when it became apparent that speaker wires would become entangled every time she sat in her recliner.

And that is symbolic of why our marriage has lasted for 34 years. Neither of us insists on having our own way, even if we truly believe we are right. Inflexibility only leads to petty selfishness, that gradually veers to disrespect and ultimately delusion about matrimony itself.

Sorting Through Life

Workers are in the final stages of ripping out ancient carpet from our home and installing wood floors, which has meant we’ve had to move just about everything not in the bathrooms and kitchen. In the process, I’ve been motivated to toss some of the stuff I’ve been carrying around for way too many years.

I really don’t think I’m a packrat, but in my wife’s view I am. She’s not sentimental about keeping much. Beyond spiritual books and notebooks she doesn’t really store anything.

I know I’m not a hoarder. I have a relative who can barely move in his basement because of all the stuff he’s collected. And he rents a storage unit for more stuff. Thankfully I don’t have a basement.

But Patty has pointed out to me that I really don’t need to keep biology and British literature class notes from 1979. Or receipts from everything I purchased in 2001. Or every single issue in which I have written an article for the Pentecostal Evangel, which is, after all, a weekly magazine.

During the past week, I’ve succeeded in eliminating about half the possessions I’ve stored in closets. I have a now-deceased aunt and uncle who had photo album after photo album of vacations they had taken in their retirement years. The pictures had no meaning to their children and went in the trash heap.

Someday I’ll be gone. I don’t want to leave my sons a house full of items that are of no use to them. I better start cleaning off the bookshelves.

Chicken Creed

The goofy Chick-fil-A brouhaha just keeps getting weirder.

The fast-food chain’s CEO, Dan Cathy — a Baptist — told Baptist Press last month that he believes in traditional marriage between a man and a woman. No earth-shattering news. Cathy has said as much for years and it’s no secret that Chick-fil-A, a business that closes on Sundays, espouses biblical values.

Yet the story made its way through the mainstream media as though Cathy had said he hates homosexuals with all his being. The mayors of Boston and Chicago vowed that they would — illegally — prevent Chick-fil-A from operating in their cities. It appears that gay marriage has become the pinnacle of civil liberties.

Naturally the overreaction by the politically correct left spawned an overreaction of the religious right. Yesterday’s massive organized go-eat-at-Chick-fil-A-Day by various Christian entities and personages further escalated the culture war rhetoric.

The problem I have with that “activism” is that Christians somehow think they have demonstrated their faith by waiting in line for a chicken sandwich. Shelling out a few bucks for a patty on a bun is not the litmus test of Christianity. I’m bothered because this is the depth of the belief for many Christians. They don’t show much concern about rescuing sex-trafficked girls or feeding the homeless or counseling drug addicts or adopting special-needs kids. But eat a chicken sandwich? Sign me up!

Tomorrow of course comes the inevitable counterdemonstration by the gays who will hold occupy “kiss-ins” at a Chick-fil-A near you. I can hardly wait.

No TV? How Radical!

My wife, Patty, and I canceled our satellite television service a week ago. We’re not going with another provider. We’re not switching back to cable. We’ve decided to give up watching TV because it’s such a waste of time.

Not that we watch junk, or that we don’t find viewing pleasurable. I enjoy sitting down to see CBS Sunday Morning, Jeopardy, St. Louis Cardinals baseball games and classic movies on TCM. But that’s the problem. While I plunk down in my easy chair, I miss out on life. 

After many decades of zombielike viewing, it has become clear that TV did more than just provide evening comfort.

It had become an idol, an idol I dreaded giving up; an idol that I visited nightly by default; and idol that is preferable to more important activities, such as ministering to addicts or counseling troubled couples. 

Many of my Christian friends who have learned of my decision are as incredulous as the DirecTV customer serviceperson who tried 11 different ways to talk me out of canceling. But I think priorities may be out of whack. Although I don’t want to go off on a sanctimonious rant, the faith of many Christians I know seems impotent because they have more of a relationship with popular culture than the Lord. They would rather salivate over babes on The Bachelor than read the Bible; they would rather laugh at penis jokes on Two and a Half Men than pray. 

Rather than being a nuisance or distraction, the prospect of spending time in the evening praying with my wife or preparing to lead a small group now looks liberating. I also can send some of the $57 a month I’ll be saving to deserving ministries. 

Patty and I think we’ll survive this change in lifestyle. More than two decades ago we gave up television for a year and it turned out to be a great period of spiritual and relational growth. The catalyst back then? Cable TV rates had risen to $16 a month. But the sexual titillation dominating the airwaves also bothered me. Of course titillation from 1989 has been replaced by blatant vulgarity in 2012.

When I first gave up the habit in my younger days, I spent more time with my family, especially playing with my three young sons. I also read more and found church activities to be more meaningful. I quickly filled the time I had watched television with more essential pursuits. May it happen again.

A Night with JT

Through the generosity of the mother of my friend Jeremy Coursen, I had an 11th row floor seat Tuesday night at the James Taylor concert at JQH Arena.

While some attendees knew every word to every song, I am most familiar with Taylor’s work from the 1970s, including his breakthrough album Sweet Baby James that included the title track plus Fire and Rain, Country Road and Anywhere Like Heaven — all of which he sang at the concert. Taylor emerged out of an era of talented composers-singers that includes Paul Simon, Neil Diamond and Gordon Lightfoot, all of whom continue to write and perform in concert in their 70s.

Taylor’s mellow voice has changed little from when he recorded that album as a 22-year-old folk/country/rock singer 42 years ago. The 6-foot, 3-inch Taylor remains trim and animated on stage, frequently bouncing around and genuinely interacting with his assembled crew of seasoned musicians and singers. Most concertgoers were young adults and middle-aged people like me, attesting to Taylor’s staying power.

Few singers of Taylor’s caliber visit Springfield. But from the get-go as he unassumingly walked out on stage, took a bow, and picked up his guitar, Taylor indicated that he considers performing a privilege. Throughout the show he gave effusive praise to his backup singers and musicians; self-effacingly noted how he has survived trials and temptations; expressed gratitude to Paul McCartney and George Harrison for giving him his first recording break in 1968; and nimbly played guitar on virtually every song.

The show deftly blended a variety of instruments on various numbers including accordion, flute, flugelhorn, saxophone, fiddle and fiddle. Taylor seemed to be truly energized by the enthusiastic response of the crowd. How many artists of Taylor’s stature spend the entire 20-minute intermission signing autographs from the front of the stage?

I’ve been to many concerts over the years, but none in which I could actually see the performer well without looking at the big-screen projection. Thank you, Jeremy, and Dalla, for thinking of me.