I am the unmerciful servant, saved by grace, yet unmerciful when you approach me on the street for pocket change.

It isn’t that I haven’t been told about your plight in many times and in many ways, because I have; it’s just that I have been unwilling to listen and unwilling to act. The truth is, I feel like it’s my right to have things and that I deserve them. From this self-centred self-righteousness I have walked all my 30 years.

This might come across as an extreme statement. It might be in some ways. I haven’t wished anyone any real harm except maybe a past boyfriend or two. But in my heart I know that when my Lord Jesus Christ judges me, He will ask me if I clothed Him, sheltered Him and fed Him.

In that moment there will be no excuse, no reason or explanation. There will be nothing but His utter sadness. As I think about it, I dread that day.

Let me tell you how self-righteous I am. I live downtown, but have thought many times about moving just to avoid being asked for pocket change. Poor people tend to avoid begging where there are low levels of pedestrian traffic. When you approach me for money, I contemplate whether you might be drunk or high. I have concluded that if you are, I shouldn’t give you anything to feed your addiction.

I act as though the money I have is mine despite the fact that God says everything is His. If you asked me for my shoes or coat, I wouldn’t give them to you. I wouldn’t give them to anyone, quite frankly. I like shoes, handbags, clothes…fashion in general.

So when I am asked for pocket change, I often lie and tell you that I don’t have any. The truth is, I do, but I don’t want to give it to you. I don’t want to be bothered. I don’t want to have to deal with the fact that you need more than my 50 cents or my loonie.

You need me to take you home, and to do that I’d actually have to ask your name. At home I would need to give you a warm bath and a fresh, clean towel to dry yourself. I would need to offer a comb or brush, some common brand hand lotion and some of my clean clothes.

Then you would need a hearty meal on proper dishware, a cloth napkin, a cool glass of water accompanied by a fine glass of wine, followed by dessert. Then we would retire to the living room where I should be genuinely interested in who you are, not just that you’re poor.

When it became late and you realized my home is safe, that I wouldn’t kick you out just when the night temperatures have set in, you would be relaxed enough to yawn. It’s the kind of satisfied yawn I take for granted after a long day of enjoying safety, comfort, warmth and good food instead of the desperate yawning you do to stay awake at night on the street.

Then you would need me to make up the couch in the living room with odds of my grandmother’s old pillowcases on

But I’m too busy to be busy with all of that. I’m too busy being busy being ineffective with all my church obligations, ineffective with my friends and family relationships and doing my job. It’s easier to give you the loonie or buy you a sandwich at the local coffee shop. But I’m more self-righteous than that so I suggest you visit a mission up the street to get help, get sober and get a job because there are so many of those out there.

I’m almost certain you can get your résumé done at a local career support place (though I don’t know where that is exactly). I am sure my tax dollar pays for it. I suggest you get some résumés printed up and get them out there. The finance minister says the economy is doing really well, so you should be able to find a job—at least that’s what he said to me.

I assume you have the money for a newspaper to get the job classifieds and if you don’t you can pick one up in a coffee shop. I assume you are allowed to go in the coffee shop and take the paper even though you don’t buy anything. It seems all right when I do that.

I assume you have a telephone so you can hear back from a potential employer. I assume those payphones are still all over the place and that they receive calls. If not, why don’t you get a prepaid cell phone? It’s really not that hard to get a job. I know, because I’ve been getting jobs since I was a kid and my dad drove me to and from the local restaurant for my shift. They don’t pay that well but I managed just fine when I was in high school.

And what about that rumour that some of the beggars on the street live in expensive highrises in other parts of town? I’ve heard that many times, there must be many people begging and living in condos—it’s shocking. You might be one of those people and what a fool I would appear to be, giving you 50 cents even though I’ve bought nice lunches for plenty of my friends or given them change for the parking meter without even batting an eye.

If I don’t give you the money that’s burning a hole in my front pocket this minute, I’ll always be the one who said no. You’ll never ask again, I won’t know your name and this is something I won’t even remember. That would be much safer and easier because I don’t want to have to say yes this time and no next time.

More excuses

Besides, I think my church helps people like you with their outreach program. I’ve already tithed at church; God will be satisfied with my tithe. After all, I give more than 10 per cent and my church needs my support; they’re down on donations these days. The leadership wants a new space. We can’t accommodate all the programs and all the people in the same building anymore. Christians need to fellowship with each other and the new building will do just that, be a place where we experience Christian community.

I suppose I could invite you to church but why would you want to come there? You probably wouldn’t fit in; you would feel uncomfortable, so I would need to sit with you. After the service my friends would come over to say hi and you’d just stand there like you don’t know anyone else but me so I would need to introduce you. I don’t really know how they would respond, it’s just probably better not to invite you in the first place.

So I say no to giving you pocket change. I go on about my day with little interruption to the way I had planned it. On Sunday I enjoy the worship and the service, though I don’t really think worship is just singing. It works though. Afterward, I talk to some people I see only on Sundays and agree to do a few more things I don’t really have time to do in the first place.

Not again

As I leave, you’re standing there in front of the church in a tattered coat. Somebody in front of me gives you pocket change as he leaves. I walk by pretending I don’t recognize you and that I didn’t hear your request for help again.

I ask the guy who gave you money why he did it when you might be an alcoholic. He tells me two years ago you lost everything, including two small children and your wife, in a house fire. The grief was so intense you started drinking to cope with the pain, but the alcohol made you depressed and you lost your job. Now you’re just trying to get through each day.

And here I am, the unmerciful servant, saved by the grace of a majestic King who forgave my debt, requested that I love Him with all my heart and love my neighbour as myself.

Susan Smith (a pseudonym) is a “struggling servant of Christ having a very human response to a calling I don’t quite understand.” She is a capitalist, desperate to act out the love of Christ in a corporate and material world and “a woman who has stopped being busy, to be effective instead.”