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.

I read a definition of injustice as “people with power taking something from people who lack power.” I like that. The context involved helping to free women and young girls in south Asia who are forced into prostitution. That’s a rather obvious case of injustice. So was American slavery, and our treatment of native Indians. So is the way cities seize private homes, via imminent domain, to satisfy the greed of wealthy businessmen wanting to build expensive condos.

Injustice also arises in very small ways. I think of Josh, a young man who showed up at our church a few months ago after having been out of state for a few years. He had gotten his life in order, and was excited about going back to school to get his GED. After getting his GED, he planned to join the Marines. So he had purpose in his life.

But he didn’t have a car. He planned to get his GED at North Side High School in Fort Wayne. But when he met with an administrator there, he was told that he would need to attend Elmhurst High School. Most of the kids in our neighborhood are bused to Elmhurst, located many miles away on the south side of the city. North Side is closer, and Josh told me he could walk there.

But because of some rigid rule and an equally rigid administrator, Josh’s plans were dashed. He told me this one Sunday in August. I decided that the next time I saw Josh, I would offer to go with him to North Side, to plead his case for a reasonable exception. But that was the last time I saw Josh, and I wonder what has happened to him.

An injustice occurred. Josh needed an advocate to go up against persons of power–in this case, an uncaring school administrator hiding behind a policy. It was a little thing to that person, a simple matter of saying, “Sorry, we can’t do that.” But to Josh, the ramifications were huge.

Last night at our little prayer meeting, we spent some time looking at Romans 12:9-21. Verse 16 says, “Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position.”

Nicolette offered what, to me, is a fascinating observation. She wondered if you could read that verse in the opposite way, meaning, “Be willing to associate with people of high position.”

So we talked about that. Nicolette said she felt uncomfortable, in particular, being around wealthy people. (In that regard, Anchor is definitely a low-position church.) We might view someone as a high-position person because of their education, important job, or wealth. Especially wealth. We agreed that we don’t like being around snootie people. People who regard themselves as better than you. People who use their intellect/position/money to assert their superiority, to intimidate others, or to wield power and influence.

No, it’s not fun being around such people. But perhaps the Bible is saying we shouldn’t avoid them. Maybe the spirit of the verse is, “Be willing to associate with anyone who isn’t like you. Don’t let your differences separate you.”

[Okay, amateur theologian on the premises.]

Joe Leatherman, Anchor’s drummer, is a 7th grader and sometimes sports a Mohawk. This week he also sported something else which drew unfavorable reviews from school administrators. He went to school wearing shorts made entirely of duct tape. They had pockets and everything. Joe’s Dad, Terry, was quite impressed, though he says the house is now littered with scraps of duct tape.

This is a magnet school focused on drawing youngsters interested in the arts. Don’t duct-tape shorts demonstrate a definite sense of artistry? I think so. Joe insists they are comfortable, though I have difficulty imagining that, with the chaffing and general inflexibility, and I didn’t think to inquire about zipper-related accomodations. But much of what youngsters wear (such as jeans magically held in place below butt level) don’t appear to my untrained eye to be particularly comfy.

Anyway, Joe was asked to remove his duct-tape shorts and don the spare shorts he brought for just such an occasion. Which he anticipated, since a friend got the same treatment a day or two previous.

Joe was told that the shorts were a distraction, to which Joe responded in a most reasonable and respectful tone, “Isn’t my Mohawk a distraction?” He was told, “If kids talk about your Mohawk more than they talk about school, then I’ll deal with that.” Or something along that line. The reasoning doesn’t quite track with me, especially when I consider all the other teen-culture fashion accessorizing that could conceivably qualify as distracting–chains and colored hair and prolific piercings, and pants with pockets around shin level.

Joe was telling us about this experience tonight at music practice. I asked Pastor Tim what he would think of someone coming to church wearing shorts made of duct tape. He thought that would be awesome. So maybe Joe will wear them to church Sunday. I, personally, would like to see this example of 21st Century postmodern creative expression. Maybe Joe will sit down on the drum seat and get stuck. Alas, the cost of being an artist.