should I give money to homeless folks or beggars?
by the (clai)borne identity (deal with it)
from thesimpleway.org f.a.q. link
Jesus said give to everyone who asks. that’s a tough command. sometimes we wonder what Jesus would do in the calcutta slums or in these heroine-haunted streets where folks ask for change on every corner. what we can say with confidence is that we are to give something to everyone who asks – dignity, attention, time, a listening ear. sometimes we may give money, sometimes not. but we can always give love. and there are times when giving money can even be a way to insulate ourselves from friendship or the messiness a real relationship might demand. so you can toss a few coins to a beggar or write a check to charity precisely as a way of insulating ourselves from relationships (and still appease our consciences)… but at the end of the day Christ’s call is to relationship and compassion. when Jesus speaks in matthew 25 about caring for “the least of these”, the action he speaks of is not about distant acts of charity but personal actions of compassion – visiting the prisoners, caring for the sick, welcoming the strangers, sharing food with the hungry. better than sharing money is sharing life, a meal, a home. having said that, most christians need to get taken advantage of more. and we can usually spare some change. sometimes folks say this question about giving to beggars and panhandlers with suspicion, speculating that homeless folks will just use their money for drugs or alcohol… which happens sometimes. but we don’t always ask what ceo's are doing with our money when we give it to their companies (and the recent events on wall street raise some flags about how responsible they are!). in the end, if we cannot take someone to dinner or give them a ride when they ask for money, we might as well give some money. it’s better to err on the side of grace than on the side of suspicion. and we doubt that Jesus is going to reprimand us for giving too much money to addicts… more likely, we will discover we could have been a bit more generous than we were.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
songs…
growing out the tips of tree branches
rising up from the pavement after a rainy summer day
pouring in through colonial style windows
pelting car hoods in some fluke of a hurricane-esque tirade
winding through chain link fences
(hiding eternally from the scorn of weed wacker)
pummeling sargassum
circumventing skyscrapers aft of sunshine- creating all black wings
waving to the frequenter of coffee shops on week days
careening over the piled up tracks- all of flagler’s dying wishes
hesitating to cross the street because momma’s hands are both pushing a publix cart
rising above the fear of breaking down and stepping on the gas
undulating in the steam o’ertop a pot of boiling rice
jumping across tables and saying, son you love well, grandson you love well
waiting as the door closes (before locking) to make sure I’m out safe
running out an mp3 playing device so my ears don’t bleed from radio hits
it wasn’t until these songs jumped back on the mind’s radar did I make for my khaki pants, my grandpa’s shirt (again), and my quattro pro hat. It’s weird how perspectives grab you and tint your eyes until all are drab forces, all are simply leaves, waves, hail, and birds and you can’t hear what’s really going on, new days without the song are on par with impacted fingernails trying to scratch off an ingrown toe hair, don’t do it.
rising up from the pavement after a rainy summer day
pouring in through colonial style windows
pelting car hoods in some fluke of a hurricane-esque tirade
winding through chain link fences
(hiding eternally from the scorn of weed wacker)
pummeling sargassum
circumventing skyscrapers aft of sunshine- creating all black wings
waving to the frequenter of coffee shops on week days
careening over the piled up tracks- all of flagler’s dying wishes
hesitating to cross the street because momma’s hands are both pushing a publix cart
rising above the fear of breaking down and stepping on the gas
undulating in the steam o’ertop a pot of boiling rice
jumping across tables and saying, son you love well, grandson you love well
waiting as the door closes (before locking) to make sure I’m out safe
running out an mp3 playing device so my ears don’t bleed from radio hits
it wasn’t until these songs jumped back on the mind’s radar did I make for my khaki pants, my grandpa’s shirt (again), and my quattro pro hat. It’s weird how perspectives grab you and tint your eyes until all are drab forces, all are simply leaves, waves, hail, and birds and you can’t hear what’s really going on, new days without the song are on par with impacted fingernails trying to scratch off an ingrown toe hair, don’t do it.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
from the ragamuffin gospel, by brennan manning
the way we are with each other is the truest test of our faith. how i treat a brother or sister from day to day, how i react to the sin-scarred wino on the street, how i respond to interruptions from people i dislike, how i deal with normal people in their normal confusion on a normal day may be a better indication of my reverence for life that the antiabortion sticker on the bumper of my car.
we are not pro-life simply because we are warding off death. we are pro-life to the extent that we are men and women for others, all others; to the extent that no human flesh is stranger to us; to the extent that we can touch the hand of another in love; to the extent that for us there are no "others."
today the danger of the pro-life position, which i vigorously support, is that it can be frighteningly selective. the rights of the unborn and the dignity of the age-worn are pieces of the same pro-life fabric. we weep at the unjustified destruction of the unborn. did we also weep when the evenoing news reported from arkansas that a black family had been shotgunned out of a white neighborhood?
one morning i experienced a horrifying hour. i tried to remember how often between 1941 and 1988 i wept for a german or japanese, a north korean or north vietnamese, a sandinista or cuban. i could not remember one. then i wept, not for them, but for myself.
when we laud life and blast abortionists, our credibility as christians is questionable. on one hand we proclaim the love and anguish, the pain and joy that goes into fashioning a single child. we proclaim how precious life is to God and should be to us. on the other hand, when it is the enemy that shrieks to heaven with his flesh is flames, we do not weep, we are not shamed; we call for more.
the sensitive jew remembers the middle ages-every ghetto structured by christians, every forced baptism, every good friday pogrom, every portrait of shylock exacting his pound of flesh, every identifying dress or hat or badge, every death for conscience's sake, every back turned or shoulder shrugged, every sneer and slap and curse.
with their tragic history as background, it is not surprising that many jews are unimpressed with our anti-abortion stance and our arguments for the sacredness of human life. for they still hear cries of 'christ-killer!' the survivors of auschwitz and dachau still feel lashes on their backs; they still see images of human soap, still taste hunger, still smell gas. the history of judaism is a story of caring: they are not sure we care for them.
the pro-life position is a seamless garment of reverence for the unborn and the age-worn, for the enemy, the jew, and the quality of life of all people. otherwise, it is paste jewelry and sawdust hot dogs.
we are not pro-life simply because we are warding off death. we are pro-life to the extent that we are men and women for others, all others; to the extent that no human flesh is stranger to us; to the extent that we can touch the hand of another in love; to the extent that for us there are no "others."
today the danger of the pro-life position, which i vigorously support, is that it can be frighteningly selective. the rights of the unborn and the dignity of the age-worn are pieces of the same pro-life fabric. we weep at the unjustified destruction of the unborn. did we also weep when the evenoing news reported from arkansas that a black family had been shotgunned out of a white neighborhood?
one morning i experienced a horrifying hour. i tried to remember how often between 1941 and 1988 i wept for a german or japanese, a north korean or north vietnamese, a sandinista or cuban. i could not remember one. then i wept, not for them, but for myself.
when we laud life and blast abortionists, our credibility as christians is questionable. on one hand we proclaim the love and anguish, the pain and joy that goes into fashioning a single child. we proclaim how precious life is to God and should be to us. on the other hand, when it is the enemy that shrieks to heaven with his flesh is flames, we do not weep, we are not shamed; we call for more.
the sensitive jew remembers the middle ages-every ghetto structured by christians, every forced baptism, every good friday pogrom, every portrait of shylock exacting his pound of flesh, every identifying dress or hat or badge, every death for conscience's sake, every back turned or shoulder shrugged, every sneer and slap and curse.
with their tragic history as background, it is not surprising that many jews are unimpressed with our anti-abortion stance and our arguments for the sacredness of human life. for they still hear cries of 'christ-killer!' the survivors of auschwitz and dachau still feel lashes on their backs; they still see images of human soap, still taste hunger, still smell gas. the history of judaism is a story of caring: they are not sure we care for them.
the pro-life position is a seamless garment of reverence for the unborn and the age-worn, for the enemy, the jew, and the quality of life of all people. otherwise, it is paste jewelry and sawdust hot dogs.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
two/eight/eleven
with cup of coffee in hand
i’m already searching for ways to desert
my plan
it didn’t match up to ideals in my head
like the withered orchid (covered with segmented ants)
prostrate on the countertop (beside my keys)
wishing for soil
but i took it inside
to offer me its scent
at my command
dear God
jumpbox me grace
or lay me on top
of a stretcher with handles attached
and carry me down
to the prophet in town
when you find that it’s packed
tear open the roof
and hurl me down
before the man
that makes good wine
thirteen point five
at least
who saves the best for last
and knows how to deal with lameness
it’s not that I’ve begun numbering my days
rather that I’m sitting thick in malaise
and it’s always in tomorrow’s paper
which I received again
today (upon first waking)
and fear I’ve got to catch a train
that’ll lead me
and dump me
closer to the truth
than any route i choose on whim
and con off as the result of prayer
to dear God
i’m already searching for ways to desert
my plan
it didn’t match up to ideals in my head
like the withered orchid (covered with segmented ants)
prostrate on the countertop (beside my keys)
wishing for soil
but i took it inside
to offer me its scent
at my command
dear God
jumpbox me grace
or lay me on top
of a stretcher with handles attached
and carry me down
to the prophet in town
when you find that it’s packed
tear open the roof
and hurl me down
before the man
that makes good wine
thirteen point five
at least
who saves the best for last
and knows how to deal with lameness
it’s not that I’ve begun numbering my days
rather that I’m sitting thick in malaise
and it’s always in tomorrow’s paper
which I received again
today (upon first waking)
and fear I’ve got to catch a train
that’ll lead me
and dump me
closer to the truth
than any route i choose on whim
and con off as the result of prayer
to dear God
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
junior league baseball
i found myself walking out to the batter’s box with bases loaded, coach gives the signal for swing away (which i think was actually him twirling chest hair, mouth agape, if i remember correctly). the signals were always more of a distraction than anything else, and though on that hot sunday afternoon in boca raton i had no trouble understanding the horrendously disgusting and confusing signals being thrown my way, i lacked the confidence to carry them out the way he intended. the last bit was the most crucial part, the way he, my coach, intended.
a little context would surely cue reader to my amped frustration on that day in boca raton.
to play little league ball in lantana a kid could not exceed 12 years of age. i hated this rule. i was completely out of control in lantana’s little league. i was so thoroughly dependable on a number of counts. i could steal any base anytime. monsters eat people and cars, i ate stolen bases. i hit through the gaps between in-fielders so consistently i made their team mom’s shake maniacally- a team mom is a mom who has nothing else to do, is overprotective of her child, or loves baseball but lacks coaching skills, or a mom who wants to have an affair with the coach. defense, a no brainer, i played every position- i pitched, i caught, short-stop, center field, no shit i was unstoppable, a legend among lantana little league baseball playing adolescents. but the day i turned 13 my entire life changed. i was forced to retire from the little leagues and join all the other 13 and 14 year olds in junior league. tryouts were horrendous. i was small. i didn’t have a gold necklace, no sweat bands, no big-barrel bat, no hair under my arms. goodness it was another world. i kept looking over my shoulder, back at the old world, the little league field where i reigned supreme, wishing i could trot back there, hop the fence, and re-take my throne. i couldn’t. i got picked up by the mariners, coached by bob brackis (who was married to beverly brackis, and together they owned the boca based towing company known as b&b tow yo butt anywhere ). bob was the italian father of bobby brackis, also italian, 13 years old, and played my position and though he also hadn’t hit puberty yet and was a good deal shorter than myself, he had a tow-truck driver for a father which meant he had shoulders like a logger and could swear like the godfather. he and i were apparently the only two who hadn’t grown like all the other boys did in the off-season but somehow i just knew that he’d would be playing short and i’d be on the bench. i thought correctly.
down florida drive lived a buddy of mine, vaughn parker. he was slick on the diamond as well as with the middle school girls (i know because when we were on the diamond he would tell me they were always calling him after school). he slapped line drives and he was fast, had a good arm so he pitched and batted whenever he wanted. being his parents were divorced and he an only child, he received anything he wanted from his father...anything, bats, gloves, batting gloves. he got hooked up so often i received some pretty sweet hand me downs. but his father was cool though, he drove a big truck and smoked marlboros like bob brackis did, but he thought me worthy to ride inside the cabin of his truck whereas bob thought of me on par with one of his pornographic mud-flaps.
vaughn's dad and bob brackis started a traveling baseball team, and based on my little league street cred alone they asked me to join. we were the d-a-w-g-s, dawgs. we played in weekend tournaments all over the state and kicked ass. we were promised professional baseball careers if we could just kick enough ass. and i was one of the smaller boys still but, i don’t know, somehow playing with vaughn, and riding to practice in the back of his dad’s smokey pre-quad cab chevy truck made me enjoy baseball again even if i could no longer play short-stop or confidently stand in the batters box.
back to the day at hand...
who knows why but i found myself walking out to the batter’s box with two outs and bases loaded. i watched vaughn parker's dad down the 3rd base line nodding his head at me, twirling chest hair like a mad man. i stepped inside the box, took a strike, stepped one foot out of the box, and did something i’d never done previously. i called a timeout. coach tilted his stern coaching face as if his entire universe had just downshifted without much clutch, each step i took was a brash grinding of gears. i trotted down the third base line towards coach to share a plan, one i had just wipped up when i should have been swinging my bat. he knelt and with, marlboro and morning breath pervading into late afternoon boca raton air he asked,
“uhh, what’s the deal, wha-what’s...the deal?”
“i’m going to bunt.”
“what?”
“have the others run, i’m going to bunt,” i explained.
his initial reactions were confused. but the longer he looked at my pre-pubescent face he knew i lacked every strand of confidence needed to hit the ball. he coupled that understanding with my cast-iron compromise of baseball stratagem (bunting with bases loaded and two outs isn’t common). he gripped and scratched the back of his neck with his left hand and started pointing at me with a wagging right pointer. he rolled with my plan and threw a few discrete signals to the boys on base. i walked back and knew what i had to do. if i went for the bunt down third, the guy coming home is done- he’ll be strangled by the simple 2-1 scoop, easy underhand from pitcher to catcher, inning over. but, i poke it down the first base line a ways the pitcher will go for it, and being he’s right handed he’ll have to made a crazy turn to make the 2-1 so he’ll go to first with it making the out to end the inning (x-factor- he doesn’t know how ridiculously fast i am). plus, if i poke it far enough the first baseman will also confusedly try to field the bunt as well.
play resumed, as planned the runners left before the pitch was released. i pivoted my toes and set the angle of my bat for a text book first-base-line bunt. i got my bat on the ball, it stayed in play but it sprang left instead of right. i watched it as i ran figuring the pitcher’d tag vaughn who was running home. but vaughn was nearly home. then he was sliding into home. the pitcher hesitated. he had pumped the throw home but then realized he’d better try to get me for the 2-3 sure out. i was but two strides off first. he rushed, gunned the throw and overshot the first baseman. the right fielder was behind him and after a few seconds tracked it down and threw home to hopefully stop the bleeding. our second runner was already in the dugout and the guy who was on first was barreling for the plate. the ball joined the confluence of runner and catcher just in time but the runner slid very heavily into the catcher. the catcher fell over backwards and the ball was flung into the backstop. by this point i was rounding third with coach parker doing cracked out signals all the while. the catcher gathered himself, threw off his mask and scrambled for the loose ball. it was too late. if vaughn was too fast i was way too damn fast. i stomped the plate, picked up the bat and walked back to the dugout. my team (my fellow dawgs) the stands, and coach parker were stupified with cheers, laughter, and an overwhelming upsurge of high fives. an absolutely unanimous balls to the wall uproar, the stands went psycho ape for sure. it wasn’t the final inning or anything but those runs were game winners for sure. my grand slam bunt won the game. holy crap.
a little context would surely cue reader to my amped frustration on that day in boca raton.
to play little league ball in lantana a kid could not exceed 12 years of age. i hated this rule. i was completely out of control in lantana’s little league. i was so thoroughly dependable on a number of counts. i could steal any base anytime. monsters eat people and cars, i ate stolen bases. i hit through the gaps between in-fielders so consistently i made their team mom’s shake maniacally- a team mom is a mom who has nothing else to do, is overprotective of her child, or loves baseball but lacks coaching skills, or a mom who wants to have an affair with the coach. defense, a no brainer, i played every position- i pitched, i caught, short-stop, center field, no shit i was unstoppable, a legend among lantana little league baseball playing adolescents. but the day i turned 13 my entire life changed. i was forced to retire from the little leagues and join all the other 13 and 14 year olds in junior league. tryouts were horrendous. i was small. i didn’t have a gold necklace, no sweat bands, no big-barrel bat, no hair under my arms. goodness it was another world. i kept looking over my shoulder, back at the old world, the little league field where i reigned supreme, wishing i could trot back there, hop the fence, and re-take my throne. i couldn’t. i got picked up by the mariners, coached by bob brackis (who was married to beverly brackis, and together they owned the boca based towing company known as b&b tow yo butt anywhere ). bob was the italian father of bobby brackis, also italian, 13 years old, and played my position and though he also hadn’t hit puberty yet and was a good deal shorter than myself, he had a tow-truck driver for a father which meant he had shoulders like a logger and could swear like the godfather. he and i were apparently the only two who hadn’t grown like all the other boys did in the off-season but somehow i just knew that he’d would be playing short and i’d be on the bench. i thought correctly.
down florida drive lived a buddy of mine, vaughn parker. he was slick on the diamond as well as with the middle school girls (i know because when we were on the diamond he would tell me they were always calling him after school). he slapped line drives and he was fast, had a good arm so he pitched and batted whenever he wanted. being his parents were divorced and he an only child, he received anything he wanted from his father...anything, bats, gloves, batting gloves. he got hooked up so often i received some pretty sweet hand me downs. but his father was cool though, he drove a big truck and smoked marlboros like bob brackis did, but he thought me worthy to ride inside the cabin of his truck whereas bob thought of me on par with one of his pornographic mud-flaps.
vaughn's dad and bob brackis started a traveling baseball team, and based on my little league street cred alone they asked me to join. we were the d-a-w-g-s, dawgs. we played in weekend tournaments all over the state and kicked ass. we were promised professional baseball careers if we could just kick enough ass. and i was one of the smaller boys still but, i don’t know, somehow playing with vaughn, and riding to practice in the back of his dad’s smokey pre-quad cab chevy truck made me enjoy baseball again even if i could no longer play short-stop or confidently stand in the batters box.
back to the day at hand...
who knows why but i found myself walking out to the batter’s box with two outs and bases loaded. i watched vaughn parker's dad down the 3rd base line nodding his head at me, twirling chest hair like a mad man. i stepped inside the box, took a strike, stepped one foot out of the box, and did something i’d never done previously. i called a timeout. coach tilted his stern coaching face as if his entire universe had just downshifted without much clutch, each step i took was a brash grinding of gears. i trotted down the third base line towards coach to share a plan, one i had just wipped up when i should have been swinging my bat. he knelt and with, marlboro and morning breath pervading into late afternoon boca raton air he asked,
“uhh, what’s the deal, wha-what’s...the deal?”
“i’m going to bunt.”
“what?”
“have the others run, i’m going to bunt,” i explained.
his initial reactions were confused. but the longer he looked at my pre-pubescent face he knew i lacked every strand of confidence needed to hit the ball. he coupled that understanding with my cast-iron compromise of baseball stratagem (bunting with bases loaded and two outs isn’t common). he gripped and scratched the back of his neck with his left hand and started pointing at me with a wagging right pointer. he rolled with my plan and threw a few discrete signals to the boys on base. i walked back and knew what i had to do. if i went for the bunt down third, the guy coming home is done- he’ll be strangled by the simple 2-1 scoop, easy underhand from pitcher to catcher, inning over. but, i poke it down the first base line a ways the pitcher will go for it, and being he’s right handed he’ll have to made a crazy turn to make the 2-1 so he’ll go to first with it making the out to end the inning (x-factor- he doesn’t know how ridiculously fast i am). plus, if i poke it far enough the first baseman will also confusedly try to field the bunt as well.
play resumed, as planned the runners left before the pitch was released. i pivoted my toes and set the angle of my bat for a text book first-base-line bunt. i got my bat on the ball, it stayed in play but it sprang left instead of right. i watched it as i ran figuring the pitcher’d tag vaughn who was running home. but vaughn was nearly home. then he was sliding into home. the pitcher hesitated. he had pumped the throw home but then realized he’d better try to get me for the 2-3 sure out. i was but two strides off first. he rushed, gunned the throw and overshot the first baseman. the right fielder was behind him and after a few seconds tracked it down and threw home to hopefully stop the bleeding. our second runner was already in the dugout and the guy who was on first was barreling for the plate. the ball joined the confluence of runner and catcher just in time but the runner slid very heavily into the catcher. the catcher fell over backwards and the ball was flung into the backstop. by this point i was rounding third with coach parker doing cracked out signals all the while. the catcher gathered himself, threw off his mask and scrambled for the loose ball. it was too late. if vaughn was too fast i was way too damn fast. i stomped the plate, picked up the bat and walked back to the dugout. my team (my fellow dawgs) the stands, and coach parker were stupified with cheers, laughter, and an overwhelming upsurge of high fives. an absolutely unanimous balls to the wall uproar, the stands went psycho ape for sure. it wasn’t the final inning or anything but those runs were game winners for sure. my grand slam bunt won the game. holy crap.
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