Touching Jesus

He walked into the soup kitchen smelly, haggard, and with a huge pack on his back. I don’t know how long it had been since his last meal or his last shower. His beard was long and his clothes were dirty. I was immediately drawn to him. I got up from my dinner plate and walked right over to him with a smile. He responded by asking in a mild, timid voice, if this was the place that served meals. I assured him that yes, he was in the right place, and to come on in and find a seat. He was a bit uneasy and said he smelled so was I sure if it was alright if he came in. I was taken-aback by his humility and gentleness. Of course! Come in! I repeated, as I tried to ignore the stench. He found a seat away from the others and sat down. He took off his cap. Again, I was amazed at his demeanor. I walked over to him and asked him his name. “Raymond,” he said. I put out my hand and shook his, and said it was nice to meet him, my name is Leslie. His hand was so dirty. I could feel the grime. I can’t imagine the last time he had actually had a proper hand washing. I’ve heard that some people clean themselves in the ocean. But it’s the hot part of the summer, especially in Long Beach, with temperatures reaching the 90s.

After we shook hands, I immediately became nervous. I can only explain the reason being I had never actually touched a dirty homeless person before. I had served many at the Thursday night “soup kitchen,” but none so dirty as he was. And I had spoken to many at the rescue mission the summer before when I served a weekend there, but again, none so dirty. I had also never reached out and shaken a hand. Something happened when my hand took his. I cannot explain what, except a wall in my heart came crashing down. I suppose my nervousness was a reflection of the new openness in my heart to a person, a “people,” whom I had never been open to before. I had crossed the invisible line.

You see, there’s this invisible barrier between us. We say it’s not there, but if you really examine your heart, wouldn’t you agree with me? They are the “other ones.” They are the “outsiders.” They are the people we do not think about, except when ”they” annoy us by coming up to our car windows at intersections, or by holding up cardboard signs for help in front of supermarkets, impeding us from entering our favorite stores comfortably. We do not think of “them,” except perhaps in the greater sense of it all: “we should end the homeless problem…why isn’t our mayor doing anything about it?…why aren’t social services able to get them off the streets?…” As long as they don’t touch our clean, ordered lives, we don’t think of them at all, except in the theoretical sense, as if “the homelessness problem” were a theory instead of a fact of all of our lives. We lump “them” together as a group in our minds. We don’t see individuals, but that group of invisible people who only sometimes pop up on the surface of our lives, invading our space in some way. They are the modern-day lepers.

That is why I became significantly nervous when I touched Raymond’s hand. I had touched the pariah, the leper. But I knew I needed to. If I keep that invisible wall between Raymond and myself, is that not affirming his pariah-status? Is that not telling him that I, like everyone else he comes into contact with, do not really want to welcome him into my space? Oh yes, I can go through the motions and act kind, and even serve him a hot meal. Those are all good and well, but if I am willing to touch him, that is something different. I am not writing this to condemn anyone and to put myself on a pedestal by any means, but I write from my own convicted heart. I have not been willing to reach out and touch the leper. I have wanted to maintain my own space, my own comfort, my own cleanliness— on both a broad and small scale. I want a comfortable life without messiness. I want to serve the way I find easiest and most suited to my natural inclinations. I want to “follow Jesus” to all of the places He takes me, except for the dirty places. I will let the outreach coordinator and the people with those kinds of hearts to go to the dirty, messy places. After all, I am inclined towards the beautiful. I like fine wine and fashion and interior design and gourmet food. I do not have an addiction, my hair is almost always in place, and my relationships are good. I do not use foul language and I only live in nice neighborhoods. I am well-educated and like to read non-fiction. My life is clean, orderly, and well-kept. I do not like messes. In fact, I am a self-proclaimed “clean freak.”

But Jesus wasn’t. He hung out with prostitutes and tax collectors, Samaritans and women, the lame, the downtrodden, the misfits, the dirty messes: the pariahs of His day and age. He ate with them, He touched them, He loved them. Where others saw and imposed an invisible line, He barged right over it. He moved towards people when others shrank back in repulsion. He ignored the societal expectations and norms of the day, and tore down their walls of fear and hatred and mistrust and pride. Jesus reached out and touched.

If we proclaim to follow Christ, may we really do so, as well. May we follow Him wherever he takes us, even if that means getting a little dirty from time to time. Who knows, in doing so, we may just have the blessing of touching Jesus Himself.

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“A man with leprosy came to Him and begged Him on his knees. ‘If you are willing, you can make me clean.’ Filled with compassion, Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. ‘I am willing,’ He said. ‘Be clean!’ Immediately the leprosy left him and he was cured.” (Mark 1: 40-42)

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