"Unlikely Wisdom "
Quite some time ago a profound impact was made upon my life. It wasn't a the result of a great work of literature, an inspiring story, or even the Bible. It was a cartoon. A panel from the Sunday funnies. Oh, heck, it may not have even been the Sunday edition. For all I know it ran in some weekly comics page I read somewhere along life's way.
The Family Circus by Bill Keane. It wasn't even funny -- but it stuck. Like super glue.
This particular installment had the mother of the circus explaining to Dolly, her daughter, "never pass a beggar for it may be an angel in disguise." As a result, Dolly imagines a homely looking transient man with wings and a halo.
Never had I heard that phrase before, and never shall I forget. I am not profoundly religious. To this day I consider myself a Christian, though not always a good one and often a doubting one. Yet, that phrase stuck, and stuck sounder than almost any sermon or Biblical passage. I'm not certain I believe in angels like those portrayed in modern Christianity, but somewhere, deep down, resides that hope, or fear, or wonder, that maybe, just maybe Bill Keane was right.
And it stuck.
It stuck to the benefit of nearly every homeless man, social servant or con artist looking for a handout while I was in their neighborhood. I just can't seem to forget that cartoon. "It might be an angel in disguise."
I often hear my friends and relatives say they don't give to panhandlers. "Too many crooks." "They'll use the money for drugs or booze." "Why don't they get a job?" More often than not, after feeling a an immidiate pang of guilt, they follow up with an announcement how they would buy a panhandler food or lunch or something. Yet, never, not even once, have I seen someone do it. Anyone. I haven't even seen someone offer. Personally, I was always content with dispensing some spare change or a buck or two. Lose of the guilt and wash your hands of society's outcasts at the same time.
Up until last month.
I was running an errand at lunch -- purchasing a picture frame for an advertisement I had designed -- and I needed to hit the cash machine to make a down payment. On my way to the Lucky's "insta-teller", a tall, graying man in his late thirties asked me for some spare change. I was honest with him. I didn't have any. That's why I was on my way to the teller.
After my transaction, I hoped the stranger had left. Money was tight this month due to the recently past Christmas season. My less than honorable hopes were not rewarded. He was still working the sidewalk. And, though he did not ask again but merely greeted me with a nod, whamo, big bad Bill Keane came flooding through the memory gates as I was walking past.
Too much to handle, I stopped and asked for what he needed he money. The obvious reply: "So I can get a bite to eat." Expecting a con and a refusal, I offered (if somewhat halfheartedly) to buy him lunch. He didn't turn me down; in fact, his eyes lit up with a disbelieving response of "really?"
So, I bought him lunch. We wandered through Lucky's, picking up a box of bologna, a loaf of bread, and a quart of milk. Grateful, he told me that he was down on his luck as his employer had moved to San Diego, and he couldn't afford to relocate.
Was that the end. No. Bill Keane was now teamed up with the aerobics instructor in my head. I wouldn't eat his lunch -- too unhealthy. I hit him with a five spot and told him to buy some vegies to go with the sandwiches.
Concerned I spent too much, I started thinking about this guy and why I felt I needed to do help him out. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that he could be me. The disease of poverty and the cruel hand of fate has broken men far greater than I. What would it take to get me to ask for a handout? How hungry would I have to be, and, more importantly, what would that do to my pride? The more I thought, the less significant those ten dollars became. More importantly, however, I thought about what those ten dollars might bring to him. Not just the food or money, but hope...or faith.
How do you feel about yourself and humanity as you ask for handouts? As you beg? At the risk of sounding naieve, I dearly hope that my bologna sandwich brought some hope and even some faith to his life. If my investment can light that spark, it was money very well spent.
I may be overreacting. I may be quite wrong. But I have to hope. I have to know that if a man can sacrifice his pride for sustenance, can place himself at a stranger's mercy, than I can... no, I have an obligation to risk, to trust, to give. For the spark of hope can grow. It can warm. It can sustain. The light of faith can lead. It can heal. It can empower. And a little faith, "faith the size of a mustard seed", can alter the entire course of a your life. Into a battered and broken shell the spirit of man may once again begin to shine.
I think Bill Keane maybe right. Beneath the appearance of a beggar may very well be an angel in disguise.
