mercy mathematics

Who am I?

A belly full of money, at ease;

Who are you?

A hand outstretched, emtpy;

That we should meet and our roles reversed,

For an instant, than returned;

To the mountain of injustice, where I have and you have not,

Where people rot while passersby shake their heads and turn away;

What difference will it make?

If I empty my pockets into yours,

Soon you will be empty again, and I will still be full;

Me; strong-legged, youthful, dreaming;

You, weak-legged, limping, screaming;

The streets have robbed your youth and divided its plunder.

If we traded lives, would you find relief?

You; on a train to exotic lands,

Me; on a bench with outstretched hands;

We speak in foreign tongues, yet we were created much the same,

Our stories, worlds apart, but we know this is wrong,

It wasn't supposed to be this way, I promise;

Hope is the drug you need, but the last thing you want to hear;

How much will it cost?

To obey; to stop crunching numbers while people perish over pious arithmetic;

I've met many like you, and in my mind,

I ration my portion of convenience-store mercy;

Mercy-mathematics and your belly
make strange bedfellows for a one-night stand;

I've been taught by the One whose mercy is unceasing,

I walked away in tears when He said it would cost everything,
While tonight I weep for justice;

Travel with me, to Zion's Holy Mountain,

Where trees dance and barns overflow,
Where bread is life,

And all are invited to the feast of ages;

Mercy Mathematics was written on a midnight train from Frankfurt, Germany to Prague, Czech Republic on July 10-11. While traveling, I've seen many homeless, drug addicts and strippers on the streets. I've always been torn how to react to the homeless, and oftentimes, my conclusion is based on convenience--if the person is really needy, if I have cash or coin, if I have healthy finances--the list goes on.

I recently rejected a plea for a crippled beggar at the Frankfurt train station, asking for money with a faint voiice. My travel partner reached into his pockets and gave him some coin, while I looked and communicated that I had nothing to give.

Minutes later, I went to buy some food, and saw the begggar again. I couldn't stand to think that I had told him I had nothing, yet I had a belly full of money and was about to enter a food line. Again, I rejected his plea, but in the moments that followed, I knew I was wrong. I dug into my pouch and gave him some money, and decided that tonight, our roles should reverse.

I have much to learn about mercy.

The night before I had walked through the red-light disctrict of Frankfurt--not for entertainment--but to witness the conditions of how people live: Women selling their bodies, drug addicts working first like chemists, then like nurses to experience the rush of false reality pulsing through their veins. I saw many robbed of life, voide of hope, reduced to rubble.

I am too often quick to judge, and slow to help.

During WWII, most of Frankfurt was completely destroyed by Allied Forces bombings, except for a historic church dating back to the 1400's. We visited the church, which stands out like a grandfather on a little league team against the modern city skyline. A small poster showed an aerial shot of the bombings--everything was destroyed--yet this church remained untouched and offered a refuge for those still alive in the city.

Reflecting on this visit, I wondered if our lives are much the same--we can be destroyed (by ourselves, others, society, or God)--yet a fragment of hope always remains. Scriptures talk about the body of Christ as a metaphor of a city on a hill: it's light is always visible, even in the darkest places. In the bombed out, rubble-ridden places of our world, where we often turn our heads, we must remain open, remain a refuge.

What if the Church really was the refuge, the last place standing when all else is lost?