Excess or Access?

On many occasions I have found myself in a room filled with people talking over our responsibility to seek social justice for the poor and oppressed, when suddenly I am overwhelmed by the absurdity and irony of our discussion. I look around the circle only to see my own image mirrored back to me a dozen times. The room is filled with white, middle- and upper-middle class persons whose brows are firmly wrinkled as evidence of the deep sincerity of their commitment to minority rights and racial justice.

The simple truth is that we find it easier to talk favorably about the poor than to be with them. We are overflowing with information regarding the oppressed, but we rarely make access for needy persons into our lives.

In these roundtable discussions I am continually surprised by the fact that we seldom consider the most important model for relating to the poor and oppressed around us -- the life of Jesus. The process which has been labeled "discipline" stresses the production of a new generation of mini-evangelists rather than Jesus and his ministry.

Jesus was not one to come into our circles of concern and lay down a "heavy rap" on poverty. Instead, Jesus was poor. He shared his bread with others like him and chatted at the well with folks who were in need.

From his birth in a stable to his life as an itinerant rabbi, Jesus was a poor man. From the offering for purification made for him by his parents (a pair of turtledoves, or two young pigeons), to the triumphant entry into Jerusalem on a donkey, Jesus is identified as being one with the dispossessed. It is this message -- that Jesus came specifically for the poor and the oppressed -- which is missing not only in our sermons and discussions, but also in the way we live.

I do not know many poor people, and when confronted with the life of Jesus there are several defensive arguments which I find myself and others quick to give. I am embarrassed, as I realize my claim to discipleship is rather strained by my affluent lifestyle.

"Surely," I begin, "one cannot compare the circumstances of modern urban America with those of Jesus' time. Patterns of transportation and village or town settlement in Jesus' time gave people more frequent and natural contact with the needy." I see, however, that this argument only reaffirms how out of touch I am with the needs around me. It is more a critique of my social order than a rationale for my inactivity.

So I move on to my blockbuster arguments: "Well," I begin, "I can't just go out looking for the needy thinking that that will furnish my salvation; that would be works righteousness and everyone knows that salvation is by grace alone." How I love my interpretation of Luther in these times of desperation! Yet I am still confronted by my failure to grapple with Jesus' life, his ministry, and his claim that "as you did it to the least of these ..."

I am tempted to argue that an approach which takes too seriously the importance of face-to-face, everyday encounters with poor people does not fully appreciate that we struggle with principalities and powers. My tack is to assert that too heavy an emphasis on personal encounter (actually feeding hungry people and clothing the naked) might prevent one from spending time doing the important job of changing systems.

Such detached arrogance is critiqued each day by the more than 10,000 people who die of starvation. What makes me think I should be attempting to change systems without intimate knowledge of the people who are affected most directly by the oppression of those systems? Can I genuinely seek to bring meaningful changes for a faceless humanity whose names I don't even know?

Finally, I argue that it is really not productive for me to carry enormous guilt regarding poverty when there is little I can do about matters of such enormity. How sophisticated we have become in our various psychological approaches as Christians! "Conviction of sin" used to be a valuable homiletical concept, but increasingly this is less understood or appreciated as we seek instead to alleviate "unproductive guilt."

Fortunately, our only choices are not between remaining in our circle of concern with a guilty conscience or being more healthy, guilt-free members of the circle. At some point we need to break out of the circle, or more properly, break open.

There is a certain irony which accompanies modernity. As we are given the means to communicate and interact with an ever-increasing variety of peoples and cultures, our technologies in fact are used to isolate us. We move from work, to store, to worship, and home rarely confronting those who are significantly different racially, culturally, or economically. We need a theology of access and a practical, intentional engagement with difference.

Our community in Evansville is often asked by nearby churches if we would help them by "bringing neighborhood poor people to their congregation." One can be somewhat sympathetic with the good intentions behind such a request, but our reply must be, "Why not let us find ways to bring your congregation to the poor?" Too many are willing to be with poor people behind the safe walls and traditions of their congregation, or within the confines of Christmas-basket paternalism. But accessibility means breaking down walls. It is not the poor who built the walls or who keep them propped up.

Contact is easily made -- by participating in neighborhood activities or simply by walking the streets and talking with people. Trust and understanding are not so easily won. These require time, and we believe that they require a community of support. For access leads to changes in the way we worship, pray, and live.

Increasingly our lifestyles and our technologies conspire to deny us access to those who are different. We would seek to address and correct this dilemma, but its magnitude is such that we may instead need to learn to live with a certain amount of tension. I don't believe this dilemma can be solved either by declaring our own "self-sufficiency" made possible by a simple lifestyle, or by pointing to our "voluntary poverty." We need to be aware that poverty which can be voluntary is not poverty at all; and those who espouse self-sufficiency somehow are not in touch with the advantage they have in being allowed (and given the skills) to pursue sufficiency rather than survival.

As a community, we have learned that it takes time to know and trust people with different histories and traditions. Poverty is demonic in part because it is so persistent, and for those of us inexperienced in these worlds our eyes do not always take in its denigrating force at first glance. It takes time to see those who live by scavenging the weekly garbage. It takes time to understand the monthly rituals of welfare and social security checks.

But it is not only the suffering we miss by our separation. We also miss the dignity, integrity, and faith of people who in the midst of their oppression are still compassionate and able to laugh. I do not intend to idealize poverty. It is demonic. But our serendipity is finding that "the least of these" minister to us in ways we could not comprehend as long as we denied ourselves access.

I am confident that we somehow miss the fullness of God's call to the future as we deny the paternalism in which we are trapped and fail to affirm the power we are given. For too long we have been able to deny who we are, because we have not been touched by those whose contrasting lives made our identity plain. In fact, I believe our contact with those who see the world with different eyes, who dream different dreams, and who struggle with another side of evil gives us a new and enhanced understanding of the kingdom. Rather than a time of stress, confrontation with difference may be a vital sign of our continuing life in Christ.

Our histories and our futures determine our struggle to stay alive to God's activity in the world; those of us who have inherited the role of master are compelled to discover what it means to be servant. For some of us this may mean giving away all that we have and becoming poor. Others of us will need to "own up" to our identities as wealthy and powerful people who are the beneficiaries of corporate or personal forms of oppression. We will need to stop spinning the illusion that we are somehow not powerful or not oppressors because we have espoused certain progressive ideas or use certain countercultural dialects.

Breaking open our rhetoric involves opening ourselves to the discovery of natural and frequent, face-to-face encounters with folks in our society who are less powerful and wealthy. For most of us this will mean a change in the place we live, the schedule by which we live, and the lifestyles we assume. Becoming "accessible selves" will take practice and will undoubtedly involve some pain. But I believe it to be an occasion for great joy and an event which confirms the gospel in our lives.

As Frederick Herzog has pointed out: "What we are arguing is that the poor are part of the human condition -- and if in theology we overlook them, we will not encounter God." It is, after all, within the context of such self-accessibility that the incarnational gift promised in Matthew 25 is made known to us.

Phil Amerson was a Sojourners correspondent and a member of Patchwork Central, a Christian community in Evansville, Indiana, when this article appeared.