P R A X I S
Blessing W i t h DEACON ALEXANDER CHETSAS
A Short Story From the Past
“Those who are generous are blessed, for they share their bread with the poor.” Proverbs 22:9
I’ll never forget the look on that haggard face. At the strong suggestion of my parents, I had been doing a bit of "volunteer" weeding on the sidewalk in front of my home parish for a couple of steamy summer hours—if I remember right, much to my sixteen-year-old chagrin—and he had just asked me where he could go in town for some help. He was only passing through, looking for a soup kitchen, a food pantry, clothes, a little cash, anything. He had been unsuccessfully looking for work for months, he said, and hadn’t been feeling well for even longer. In retrospect, he didn’t look well—something wrong with his belly, if I remember right. He wondered if my church might be able to help: did we have a soup kitchen today? Was there someone in the parish who might help him to earn some money? Could the pastor help with some emergency cash? And with this last question he bit his chapped bottom lip a bit, grimacing in embarrassment; he clearly wasn’t comfortable asking for help, especially for money. Annoyed at my raw fingertips and chaffed knuckles, and the sting of sweat and bug-spray in my eyes, I unceremoniously dismissed him to the Baptist church a few blocks away. They, I told him, were the ones who did "that sort of thing" in town—a "soup kitchen or something." We both tried to ignore the large drop of sweat that rolled off his nose and silently evaporated on the scorching pavement just shy of my sneaker; I was hot and annoyed, and I was hoping he would go away, but he didn’t move. Finally, wanting to end the encounter, I said it. "Yeah, why don’t you give them a try. There’s nothing for you here." With these last cold words, I made direct eye contact with him for the first time. And that’s when the look came over his face. It was an expression I can remember all too vividly, but one that is difficult to describe. It was a painful combination of disbelief, surprise, embarrassment, anger and, I think, finally hurt. It was the look of someone who was truly taken off guard, who had hoped to hear something other than what he actually heard. "Thanks," he said mutely, after an endless five or six seconds. I gave a nod, and he turned and left me to my work. I sat there, dumbly, with my silly little spade and can of bug spray for about ten minutes, not working and just thinking about what had happened. I knew I had done something wrong—but I wasn’t sure quite what it was. In the years since, when I reflect on my lack of compassion and concern for the least of my brethren that day, I often fancy the end of my life might see me revisiting this little drama. I depart from my earthly body, smugly cruise toward Heaven—but as I swagger toward the Pearly Gates in expectation of only good things, a familiar voice coldly informs me, "There’s nothing for you here." Just desserts, no doubt.
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