Charity

Beggars make me nervous. I’m not exactly sure why, but those dingy, dirty, unkempt people on the sidewalks of our big cities make me feel uneasy. I would really rather they go away than talk to me. Can’t they just clean themselves up and get a real job like the rest of us? I mean really. If I can do it why can’t they? It doesn’t make any sense. These nasty, flee-ridden people who seem to have no sense of self pride, are coming up to me and asking for money. I mean, let’s talk straight, all they really want is booze and drugs. Right? They don’t want the money to really feed themselves, or buy diapers for their baby, or vitamins for their wife. So why should I give them money?

I remember as a small child driving up to a gas station one day. I remember this whole thing as from the perspective of a small child. Always looking up. We didn’t stop for gas, or if we did it was after that we pulled right up the actual building. Maybe to pay. But we pulled in and as my dad got out of the car a man approached him. He was dirty. And he smelled. He came up to my dad and he asked for money in a strange accent. He had dark skin, the color of dark cinnamon, and his hair was shoulder length and black as a ravens wing. His eyes were dark too. And he asked my dad in his broken English for money. Asked him for help.

I was amazed to find out that the Golden Rule is universal. I don’t mean that everyone believes in the bible. But that the Golden Rule itself, the idea of treating others like we ourselves would like to be treated, is everywhere. Every major religion talks about this concept of giving, and treating, and acting as if the person we are dealing with is in fact ourselves. Because how we treat others is how we treat ourselves. Every religion. Every one. That is so interesting to me, these concepts that seem to transcend race, culture and geography and strike at the heart of humanity’s goodness. Please be kind to everyone. Treat them like you would want to be treated.

In the Bible Jesus hit the topic pretty hard. The book is full of talk about what we should do in these situations. Feed the hungry. Clothe the poor. Care for the sick. If you do these things to even the least of them you’ve done it unto Jesus himself. So, spite a beggar and you’ve spitted Jesus. It’s pretty clear. But things have been muddied for us I think. We see something shifty in our beggars that couldn’t possibly have been around when Jesus walked the earth. We wonder how Jesus would have acted if he knew someone was going to buy crack cocaine with the money we gave. We wonder if this person couldn’t really control their own destiny. Maybe it was their bad choices that led them here. Maybe helping them will cause them more harm. I mean wouldn’t it really be better if they fixed themselves and I just go ahead and buy my caramel café mocha latte? Seriously, wouldn’t the world just be safer that way?

There is a story about a beggar when the Prophet Muhammad was alive who was begging along the street one day and came across a man drying strips of meat. The man was a servant of the household and when the beggar approached and asked for something to eat the servant immediately gave him some meat to eat. The beggar, grateful took the offering. Just then the master of the house came out and saw what the servant had done and severely chastised him for giving away something that wasn’t his. How dare the servant presume to own the meat, or to be able to make decisions about property that wasn’t his. The master was furious with the servant. The Prophet Mohammad himself, as is often the case with prophets, happened to see the entire event. He spoke to the three men there, but mostly he spoke to the master and said something like, “That meat isn’t yours. It belongs to God. He’s only just lent you that meat for a time. The servant knew that and shared it with a man in need just as God shared it with you. The sad thing is because of your selfishness you will not be granted entrance into Heaven, but these men will.” And then the Prophet walked quietly away, leaving the man thinking about his own actions.

In the Book of Mormon it talks about beggars and making judgments. It says when someone asks for something you give it to them if you can spare it. You have to be honest with yourself, but if you can give, you must give. Interestingly the Book of Mormon anticipates our modern day thoughts of “this guy doesn’t deserve my handout” that we seem to think today. We wonder at how deserving these beggars really are. We question their sincerity and intent. We question their addictions and their habits. We are careful with our money. But the Book of Mormon, like all other great scriptures, anticipates these actions and thoughts and cuts to the heart of it all. Just give. If you have it, give it. You are not fit to judge this person, God is. If you have it, give it. If this person uses your hard earned money for illicit purposes, God will know, and He will judge the person as they deserve. You don’t have the right.

All the major scriptures and religions seem to agree. Treating others as we wish to be treated is the Law. Imagine yourself, maybe you have made a bunch of bad decisions, maybe you are addicted to drugs, or alcohol or video games, or caramel latte mocha loveliness, but you know you’re addicted. Imagine the shame in asking someone for money to feed that habit. Imagine the shame of having that habit beat you. Make you do things you would never have thought possible. Imagine the shame of it. Then imagine asking another person for help, and another, and another and another. Now imagine the shame, after having asked for and receiving someone else’s hard eared money, you know what needs to be done with that money. You know you should go get cleaned up and get yourself something to eat and back on the road to recovery. But instead you use it to buy yourself that hook, that thing that’s dragging you down. Imagine the shame you would feel. Then having to start all over again. If you were in that position, what would you want a stranger to do for you?

Back at the gas station my dad has stopped to talk to this man. I feel uneasy. The man seems sick, somehow he makes me uncomfortable, not for my own safety or the safety of my dad. I’m not worried about that. I’m worried for the man. Something seems wrong with him. And I don’t know how my dad can help him. But I know he wants money.

My dad only speaks two languages, English and Navajo. Two of the hardest languages in the world. They say speaking Navajo is harder than even Finnish or English itself. It’s tough. But he speaks it, fluently. He spoke served a mission for the LDS church back in ’68 and ’69 in Arizona Four Corners area. He served amongst the Navajo Indians and he has a respect for the Navajo that runs deep, deeper than most things. He knows their struggles. He’s seen their way of life and how they’ve been treated by our government and now how they treat themselves. He doesn’t get the chance to speak the language very often. It slips away, syllable after syllable when it’s not being used. Unused languages slip away. But at this moment he still has most of what he learned during the two years in the desert. He has the language he needs at this moment.

The man asks my dad for money. My dad looks him in the eye, much as I think Christ would have looked someone in the eye, and he says in a language that this man understands, in the language of his people, “What do you need my money for?” and the man takes a step back.

How can this white man know my language? How can this outsider speak in the tongue of my Fathers? He looks around, trapped. The shame of asking a white man for money is one thing. But asking someone who knows the beauty and subtlety of the Dine' this is almost more than his heart and pride can take. His eyes are locked on the ground. He answers quietly in Navajo, “I’m trying to feed my family.”

I remember my dad craning his neck to one side, trying to look the man in the eyes. “I wonder,” he said, quietly and with deep respect, “are you trying to feed your family, or do you want alcohol for yourself?”

The man looked up and caught my dad’s eye. “No.” he said, looking back down, “There is no money and no work. They are hungry. They need meat.” This was something that my dad understood, something Navajo, something Native American.

“You’re a good man.” My dad said. “Protecting your family is good and right. There is no shame in that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and pulled out a few bills.

Imagine the shame this man was feeling at this moment. Put yourself in his position. You’re standing out front of a public place, a dark skinned invader in a land that used by yours, in a town where people know you. You’re family is starving. Or, if those things aren’t true then you’re a liar and a drunk. But either way your life is horrible and you want nothing to do with yourself anymore. You want a new life. And of all the people to stop, of the hundreds of people you will ask for help and be rejected, the one person to stop is someone who knows your language, who knows your people, who knows your heart. Of all the people.

“Take this. Buy your family meat and milk.” My father said in Navajo, pushing the money into the man’s hand and enclosing his one hand in my fathers two clasping hands. “Take care of yourself. God bless you.” There was a promise given, and a murmured thanks. Eyes met. Understanding exchanged. Mercy was given and received.

My dad got in the car and we drove away. We talked about what had happened only briefly. But the scene stuck with me. I don’t know how often my dad thinks of that moment, but I think of it all the time. I wonder at the man's fate, at the fate of his family, his children. The scene really struck me years later as I began to earnestly read the scriptures, both of my own faith and of others. In that moment, now in my minds eye, I see Christ talking with the man, asking him what he needs and why he needs it. I see my Savior caring for another human being; not giving him something he doesn’t deserve, but helping a man who has asked for it. Even if the man uses the money for something else, the help was given. And that’s what’s important. When asked, we give. We treat others how we ourselves want to be treated.

I see Christ, and Mohammad, the Buddha, Moses and many more just like him, each trying to make the world a better place. Not judging someone for their position, but judging themselves by the cost of not doing something when it is asked of them. I see my dad, hand outstretched, voice low and respectful, looking at the man and seeing his own family, happy, healthy, laughing in a car not ten feet away. If I were this man, how would I want to be treated? And that is what the man gets. Help, when it’s asked for.