compassion

It's cool outside and I wish I was on top of a mountain. My assignment to demonstrate the unattainable holiness of God by describing a hypothetical situation in which I would perfectly be a communicable attribute of God's(deep breath) turned out better than I had hoped. My last post was steam blowing but now I'm twirling in the wind reveling with the cool breeze and throwing my frustrations out the window. Its fall and I'm in school again. You, faithful readers, are so kind to go up and down, in and out of seasons and moods and perspectives with me. Below is the first part of my paper. The second part: explaining holiness to a 10 year-old, is still being crafted. Criticism are welcomed :-]. I'm off to find some cinnamon.

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Every day I step onto the subway. It could be argued that, at the end of my life, I will have spent more time riding the subway that I will have spent reading, or eating, or going to church. This is, after all, New York City. And everyday, rain or shine, happy or bleak, crowded or sparse, there he sits.
I have many responsibilities, things to attend to and people waiting for me. I am important and known. My picture has been on a magazine and my name in the paper; everyone in my sphere knows of my accomplishments. I am educated, cultured, rich and refined. He is dirty and his pants have holes. We are nothing alike.
Every day of every week in every month and through every year, he beckons me as I cross the platform. Desperation overrides shame as he disregards the distinction between us. Again and again and again and endlessly, relentlessly, irreverently, he calls for me to notice his plight.
Why hasn’t he gone to a shelter? Why hasn’t he gotten a job? Why hasn’t he picked a different column? Why hasn’t the passage of time altered his state? Why is he as helpless now as he was ten years ago? But none of these questions would bother me.
I never alter my route to avoid him. I never quicken my step to hurry past or lift my chin to avoid eye contact. On the contrary, every day of every week in every month, and through out every year I stop to ask him what he needs. I am never too tired or too cold or too hurried.
“I’m hungry.”
“Let me take you to a place to eat.”
“No, I will not go with you.”
“But I can satisfy your hunger.”
“No, give me food to eat or money to buy it.”
The next day I bring him food.
“I am cold.”
“Follow me to a store where I can buy a shirt that fits you.”
“No, I will not move.”
“But I can make you warm.”
“No, give me warmth where I am.”
The next day I bring him a blanket.
“I am lonely.”
“Come to a place where you will find many friends.”
“No, I will stay here.”
“But I can give you community.”
“No. Stay with me.”
The next day, I stop and say with him as long as he desires. Though many people clamor to meet with me, I sit with him in dirt.
“I can not see, it is dark.”
“Let us go outside where the sun is bright.”
“No. Bring the sun inside.”
“The sun is not meant to be seen inside.”
The next day, when he beckons, I choose to respond. I am different not just from him but from those around me who ignore his constant cry. My desire is that, one day, he will follow me to the feast, the warmth, the community, and the sun. But perhaps he never will, choosing instead to suffer from his own folly.
I have places to go and things to do. I am important and known. I am loved and honored and respected. But still, every day of every week in every month through every year, I pass by the man beckoning beneath the column and notice his plight.
If I was perfect, this would be me: holy with compassion. Constant and everlasting, my compassion would never vary and never end. But this isn’t me. With the first glance and every one since, I pass on by.