‘Are You a Minister?’

"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me." Mathew 25:40 I will call him” Jack,” although I never knew the name of the grizzly, misshapen man who so painfully pulled himself around on two metal canes. He looked like a Jack. Before the accident that so badly deformed his body and damaged his brain, I pictured him as a wiry, muscular man--a tough, hardscrabble guy who didn't take guff from anybody.

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He was anything but that now. He could barely walk and his face was cruelly distorted by a terrible palsy that made his face tremble as he talked out of the side of his mouth. His back was hunched over, his face bore a gray stubble and he always dressed in a dirty tee shirt and jeans--whether it was eighty degrees in July or thirty below in February. He was probably younger than he looked. Life had not been good to Jack. I could not imagine more things wrong with a human being. I say with respect, that Jack was pathetic--as pathetic as one could be. I did not know what cruel twist of fate or divine plan led to his condition. I only knew that Jack was the kind of person that people instinctively ignored. Looking at him was inconvenient, so people diverted their gaze when they walked by him. It was easier not to look at Jack. He made you feel guilty that you had it so good. That you were healthy, not misshapen, and had a home and loving family to go to at night. People walked by Jack--myself included--at first. For months I watched him. He hung out at the Uptown Grill--my favorite burger joint. I would see him from time to time, sitting alone in the corner of the restaurant--smoking and watching customers come and go. His crutches propped against the table, he sat and watched people. No one talked to him. I was strangely attracted to Jack for reasons I did not understand. Perhaps it was the priest's homily about "street people" and Jesus that made me pay special attention to Jack. I had seen homeless people around town, served them at the Soup Kitchen and given them money for food--as many folks do--but Jack was different. The priest suggested one Sunday that we should show respect and compassion for street people, for the homeless, and for those in line at the Soup Kitchen because, as Jesus said, when we help "the least of His people," we are helping Him. We should, the priest said, assume that we are looking at the face of Jesus, when we look at the faces of these people and act accordingly. "Maybe," the priest said, "the man or woman you see on the street, is Jesus." That comment disturbed me. If it were true, I had certainly passed up Jesus a hundred times. One day, I did not divert my gaze but instead engaged Jack in a brief conversation. I walked by his table after lunch and said "Hi," not knowing how else to approach him. He lit up instantly and responded with a halting "How are you?" which was, for him, very difficult to say. He had a hard time articulating even the simplest phrases. His response took at least five agonizing seconds. I almost felt guilty making him suffer this. Yet, he clearly needed to talk and relished such conversation. "Fine," I responded, and waved goodbye. Over the next few weeks, I made it a point to stop by and talk to Jack whenever I was in the restaurant. I think he looked forward to our brief chats. He always managed to utter a few words, but it was always painful to hear. I felt sorry for this man who had such a difficult time responding to anyone. One frigid winter's day I noticed Jack standing on the curb of the street in his usual tee shirt and grubby jeans, wearing no coat. If he was cold, you could not tell. He seemed oblivious to the cold. I politely scolded him for not wearing a coat and suggested that he needed one in such weather. He responded with a dismissive gesture saying: "N-o-o-o, I-I-I d-don't n-need it!" his head shaking with every syllable. He was stubborn and did not want help. That evening I went home, found a heavy down-filled winter coat that my folks had given me a few years before. I had other coats and it was obvious Jack did not. I would force him to wear the coat. I took it to my office and waited for the right opportunity. A few days later, I found Jack again, wearing nothing but a tee shirt and jeans in the brutal Iowa winter. I walked over to Jack and told him to put on the coat. He protested and pointed to the arm braces on his crutches. I told him it would still fit and he would die of exposure if he did not wear something. I helped him put on the coat. It fit perfectly--arm braces and all. Although mildly perturbed, he thanked me and hobbled off, wearing the warm coat. I was probably too pushy, but ignoring Jack was a sin that I did not want on my conscience. I did not see Jack again for weeks. One spring day at the Uptown Grill, I noticed him sitting at a table, alone and smoking. His crutches, as usual, were propped against the table. People were, as usual, walking by Jack and looking past him as they did. I said hi and walked by. Jack lit up as he usually did and nodded in response. I ate lunch as he continued to stare at me across the room. When I finished, I paid the tab and walked out with my friends. As I passed Jack's table he grabbed my arm. My companions continued on. I stopped suddenly, startled and embarrassed. Then Jack blurted out something in his halting, scratchy voice that I did not expect: "A -a-a-re y-y-you a-a-a m-m-m-inister?" he asked me as he tugged my sleeve. I was speechless. I did not know if it was a question or a challenge. "No," I responded, "I'm not," whereupon I walked away, puzzled. It was surreal. His words have haunted me ever since. I have not seen Jack since that day. The Uptown Grill is closed. I don't know where Jack went or what he is doing. Most likely he is in another town sitting at another table, smoking and watching people come and go. That is, if he is still alive. Each time I see a person wandering on the street, at the Soup Kitchen, or pan handling, I think of his question. Was Jack an angel sent here to test us? Or was he just what he appeared to be--a hard luck, pathetic crippled man, whom the world often ignored and who made you thank God for everything He has done? I really don't know. Maybe he was both. I often think that if God ever did want to check on us, He would send someone who looked a lot like Jack--grizzled, misshapen, struggling along on two crutches--one of the least of His people. Maybe God sends people like Jack into our lives to remind us to be grateful for what we have and to remind us that, but for the grace of God, anyone of us could be Jack. Perhaps He sends people like Jack into our lives to test us--to see whether we really believe Christ's admonition that when we help the Jacks of this world we are really helping Him. I think of people differently after meeting Jack. I have learned to see the face of Jesus in every Jack I meet. I have learned that God gives us opportunities in life to act on His Word, and that He speaks to us through such random encounters--if they are random in fact. And I have learned that if we do something in His name--even little things--to help one of His people, then we are ministers, even if we do not intend to be. Imperfect, though we are, but ministers nevertheless.