On the way to church, I noticed a man who had fallen on the sidewalk. He appeared to be a homeless man, but I admit, he could have just been a pedestrian on his way somewhere. I didn't stop, though I usually do, because someone had already stopped to help him. I prayed for him and made it to church on time.
After church, I realized I was starving. Dinner was sparse (on purpose) last night, and not having breakfast had created a serious growling in my stomach. Just before pulling into the restaurant, my daughter and I noticed a man lying on the asphalt in a pool of blood. It was the gentleman from earlier. This time, he was in the middle of an intersection between the restaurant and a gas station.
I jumped out of the car, and ran to the man. There was a crowd, but everyone was standing around him, looking at him as he struggled to breathe through the thick blood coming out of his nose. I yelled for my daughter to get a clean towel out of the car, and noticed that he was bleeding out of his ear and a large cut on the back of his head. A witness said that he had a bike and a group of folk stole it from him, hitting him with something before he fell to the street.
Here begins my rant. I ran to the man because I want someone to run to me. I ran to the man because my Christianity remembers that Jesus went about doing good, and not for the sake of my own ego, but so that we all can help those most in need. I struggled to lift the man's head by myself so I could put the towel on it and apply pressure. I wanted to turn him, because he was gurgling in his blood and I didn't want him to drown. I turned him gently on his side.
Mind you, the people standing around were the members of the little church behind the gas station. Some of the members had seen what happened and came out to watch as the man began to convulse on the ground. The pastor, a bishop of some sort, stood over the man and watched me as I attempted to clumsily help the man.
He yelled to his congregation, "Stay back!!! Don't touch him. Just pray where you are. We plead the blood of Jesus!!!!!! He needs prayer! Jesus will heal him. Don't get near him. Everyone, start praying."
I came out of myself, friends. May God forgive me, but I am tired of folk. I continued to apply pressure while coagulating blood continued to drip out of his ear and nose. I blasted the bishop. I was livid.
"What? Stand back? This man needs prayer, but while we are praying somebody with some medical experience needs to put some feet on their prayer and help! We cannot be so afraid to help him that he dies here in the streets while good Christians do nothing. Somebody help!"
What in the world? The bishop looked at me and appeared ashamed of himself. He did not, however, approach the man, or touch him because at that point, thick blood was all over the man, on the white arrow on the ground, on my hands and pantsuit, and running down the street into the gutter. It was the thickest blood I had ever seen, and looked more like extra thick, bright red ketchup than something that could keep a human alive.
Thankfully, the ambulance was there within minutes. I had a chance to calm down and look at the pastor and the folk pouring out of the church.
He was sharp. He had on a tan suit with a fuschia pin-striped shirt and a beautiful fuschia and orange thick tie. The bishop was handsome, about my age, and had a deep resonant voice. His members were working folk. Some were dressed in their best, but I noticed their best was not necessarily expensive. I wondered why they hung on his every word, why someone wouldn't break out to help me care for the man.
The bishop was still standing back a safe distance from the dying man. Still sharp as a tack.
The man went to the hospital alive. I am not sure if he made it there, however, because he was having a hard time breathing. I gathered the man's things, gave them to a police officer and watched as the little church went back to their building before leaving to go home.
The bishop of this 30 member church got into his Hummer and drove over the bloody spot where the man had been to go on to his next destination.
Now my issue is not with these few people. My issue is with the church as a whole. What is the hesitance about? When did safety become a Christian virtue? If we are going to be the church, risk is involved. We are called to help! To step outside of ourselves and do as Jesus would.
I heard someone in the crowd say, "We don't know what he may have, so I ain't touching him." Well, 'tis true. However, I can tell you that no one out there knew what any of us had. There is a risk in being community, and in being the church. I don't have to judge, because on this, the record is clear.
Matthew 25 says, "For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat; I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink; I was a stranger and you invited me in; I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me; I was in prison and you came to visit me... Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you? The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me..."
That man was a part of Jesus, and some folk missed an opportunity to meet him today. They watched the blood of Jesus drip down the drain.
