Lord, When?

I sat down to read the newspaper, baby napping, hot coffee in hand. The headline – 1 in 15 Americans Now Part of Poorest Poor – caught my attention and my heart. At least 20 million Americans, or nearly 7 percent of the population, are “poorest poor”. As if “poor” isn’t a hard enough pill to swallow. “Congratulations, you’re not just poor, but poorest poor.” Poorest poor means a family of four living, no not living, surviving, on $11,157 per year. In the US. Where gas costs nearly $3 a gallon and cars need fixing, and kids need school clothes, and hopefully you don’t get sick.

I used to be poor. Not poorest poor, plain old regular poor. I don’t remember it well; it was before she died, when my mother was working, putting herself through college, and raising me alone. Oh yeah, did I mention she had kidney dialysis once a week too? Our little family of two had WIC and Medicaid. That’s what those programs are for. For people who are trying their hardest, doing their best, and still falling short. We didn’t have WIC and Medicaid forever. She graduated with a degree in accounting, found a job, and we were on our way again. We were lucky. Blessed. Most importantly, we were blessed because we were loved. Our family supported us however they could. So did our Church. I never knew at the time that we were poor. I was three; I had my mom and a full belly. I had everything I needed.

When Maggie woke, I got her from the crib, and these thoughts about the poor kept working away in the grey matter. Taxes are not the answer. At least, not the only or most important one. Taxes let us all off the hook too easily. Paying our taxes gives a ready-made excuse to walk by the man on the street, reeking of alcohol and humiliation, ignoring his humanity by saying, “Well, that’s very sad. Why doesn’t he go to a city shelter or go on welfare for some help. That’s what we pay taxes for, isn’t it?” I can shamefacedly admit I’ve thought that before. Rolling the eyes of my heart at a human being with a cardboard sign reaching out for help. At times it seems as though all my heart can do is turn away, lest I sit down next to him on the curb and weep for humanity. No, taxes have their place, but are not the best we can do. What is?

“Then the King will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, you that are blessed by the Father, inherit the Kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you and…’ And the King will answer them, “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.” Matthew 25:31-46

Oh. Yes. That’s right. Is there anything harder in the world than stepping outside of yourself and into the messy, complicated, lives of others? Particularly of those who are desperately in need of both bread and Love?

It fills me with hope and fear to take Him at His word. Hope, that we should believe in such a God, that a stake in our very salvation is how we treat vulnerable people who can do nothing for us. Fear, that I fall so far short, every single day. Yet I must take Him at His word. He doesn’t tell us that if we pay our taxes so the government can do the works of mercy for us, we shall be saved. No. That would be too clean, too surgical, too easy. Compared with our time, our gift of relationship, money is easy to part with.

Everyone is called to do the works of mercy, but not in the same way. I am a married woman with a baby, who hopes to have more babies and devote the bulk of my life to growing my family. That’s my vocation. That’s the calling God has given me in order to grow in holiness and help my husband and children do the same. Even the seasons of life dictate, to an extent, how we perform the works of mercy. For me, as a wife and mother, I am feeding the hungry, the thirsty, clothing the naked, caring for the sick, visiting the imprisoned and welcoming the stranger in my family first and foremost. When my babies are grown and on their own, I will have more time to devote to those outside my home.

That said, no one gets a free pass. One of my favorite Catholics of the last century, Dorothy Day, taught that we ought not to put our trust and hope in the government, but in each other. Taking a wonderful thought from Pope Pius XI, she added her own injunction at the end.

“Thank God that He has permitted us to live among the present problems. It is no longer permitted to anyone to be mediocre.” To which Dorothy Day adds, “It is you yourselves who must do the works of mercy.”

Over the next six weeks, I’ll be doing a post on each of the works of mercy and how, as young Catholics who have jobs, families, and children, we can live out the challenge that Jesus issues to us in Matthew 25. If you have any stories to share of ways you’ve incorporated the works of mercy into your life, please email me at fumblingtowardgrace@gmail.com