Yesterday at church, two persons came asking for a handout. I talked to both of them. They told their hard-luck stories and explained what they needed. I’ve heard three such stories in the past couple of weeks, and they were very similar. All three, I’m sure, knew I was listening with skeptical, maybe even cynical, ears. That might explain why they tried so hard, with their rambling words, to convince me that their situation was for real.

What they didn’t know is that I basically accepted (naively, I’m sure) their situations as true, or at least within the ballpark. I certainly didn’t see them as ever becoming rich from handouts. These are guys for whom life is a constant, day-to-day struggle, and nothing will change that. “Begging” is a survival thing, not something they enjoy or take pride in.

For the two guys yesterday…well, these are not guys who would get hired anywhere very easily. There is this whole underclass which, before coming to Anchor, I never saw. People who piece together an existence from government programs, from begging, from occasional work, and from mooching off of relatives and friends. They lack job skills, education, social skills, confidence, and self-esteem.

These are the people for whom the minimum wage matters. If they can find work, it’ll probably be minimum wage. So I’m glad that the Democrats are in charge, because, in their mixture of quasi-good and charlatanish motives, they do intend to raise the minimum wage, whereas it’s nowhere on the radar of Republicans.

The first guy came before the first service, while the worship team was practicing. He said he needed gas money, and wondered if we could provide some food for Thanksgiving. We don’t give out gas money, I learned. I don’t think we give out cash, period, and there are very good reasons for that. But I did give him money (which may or may not go toward gas–I prefer to think it will), and I suggested he stop by the church during the week about his other needs.

The other fellow came halfway through the second service; the worship team had just finished our part, and we were out in the foyer. His arm was in a sling, and lest I not believe his story, he pulled his T-shirt aside to show me a substantial scar on his shoulder. I directed him to Cheryl, who handles our Needy Fund. He sat through about half of the service, so that’s good.

I am unbelievably blessed. Skepticism toward the poor underclass should not be part of my make-up, but I do wrestle with a good chunk of skepticism. If I’m going to err, it needs to be on the side of generosity, not the side of skepticism. But how it works out in everyday life–how and when to give a handout, without becoming some kind of “enabler” (if that concept even applies to people like this)–is not something I’m close to having figured out.