Wants To Die

I met a man from the streets a few times.  He appeared strong, tough, confident.  Of course that raises the question: Why homeless?

I did not actually ask.  I just made presumptions.  Tentative to be sure, but presumptions all the same.

Then I spent time with him.  We talked.  I still did not ask.  But as he talked, he spoke of how blessed he is.  Then he spoke of better days – owning a home, raising a family, running a business.  He sounded pleased with where he is now.  He has a stripped down life.  He has what is truly important now, his friends and his health – and none of it obscured by pretense.  He lives from blessing to blessing never running out of food, nice clothes, and always with friends.

Then we communed.  We sang the songs.  We prayed the prayers.  Jesus came, and the man got high.

Soon he began crying.  He confessed that he is an addict.  He has lost everything.  He has a fiendish desire for dope.  It hooked him too deep to do anything else.  And with his wife dead and kids taken away, he can’t seem to find the will to live.  And then he spoke about how he is mad a God.

People come to him on the streets with platitudes and say “God loves you,” but he sees it otherwise.  They “hear a word from God” and sometimes “God sends” them to him.  He talks to God; but God does not talk to him.  God has cut him off, so he tells me.  And of course, those platitudes, though true as I see it, are the fine words of people who drift away.  (Again, tell me about When Helping Hurts now!)

We spent our time together in front of a locked up church all through the night as he worried whether the cops would find us and haul him off to jail.  Too bad the Sunday morning crowd wasn’t there to witness it.  Too bad.

So please read it here.  And if you want to come along, please reach out to the homeless.  You don’t need me, but if you want to tag along, I will take you on the next Covert Op, where like a thief in the night, God visits his house.

This is your invitation.

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