I’ve just finished reading an incredible book called “Simple Spirituality – Learning to see God in a Broken World”. The author, Christopher L. Heuertz, is “the international director of Word Made Flesh, an organization that exists to serve Jesus among the most vulnerable of the world’s poor.” (from the book’s jacket)

One of the things I love about his writing is that this respected, educated man doesn’t shy away from his own need to learn and grow. He talks openly about his blind spots, mistakes and weaknesses. He readily acknowledges that he has learned more about the simple spirituality of Jesus by living in community with the world’s most impoverished, oppressed people than a seminary education could ever have taught him.

Somehow, this seems consistent with the Jesus I know. God’s Kingdom, which Jesus talks about all the time, is an upside-down kingdom. We may speak in these terms at church, but our behaviour is another matter. Western Christianity, in general, is supremely selfish. I’m ashamed to say that I include myself in that statement. The allure of ease, comfort and plenty is extremely potent. I feel guilty; I want to change; I want to live a life of radical obedience to Jesus. But am I willing to let go of everything in the process? He knows the secret idols in our hearts that stand in the way of us truly following him.

I have a memory that haunts me. I regret the way I responded, even though I’m not sure what I could have done differently. From a common-sense-wisdom-of-the-world point of view, most people would acquit me, or at least cut me some slack. Even so, I can’t acquit myself. My conscience convicts me. Here’s the story.

I live in a small-ish town where relative affluence is the norm. If there are homeless people, I’ve never seen them. One day as I was driving somewhere, I noticed a dishevelled-looking man walking along the sidewalk. From the look in his eyes, I sensed that he probably wasn’t in his right mind. He was alone, dirty and lost, shuffling along in the blazing midday sun.

There was a brief interval during which I struggled to decide what, if anything, to do. Suppose this man was my son, my brother, or my husband. Wouldn’t I want someone to stop and help? I thought about Jesus’ words, “whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me”. His story about the good samaritan flashed through my mind. But I also felt afraid. “What if I try to help him and he attacks me?” “If I pick him up, where will I take him?” The light changed. I drove away.

I guess I could’ve called the police – maybe someone else did. But that solution aside – and I’m not convinced the police would’ve solved his problems, just ours, by making him disappear – what would Jesus have done? I don’t think there’s any question, if you take scripture seriously. But our model of church in the western world generally isn’t structured to accommodate people who are terribly, messily, painfully broken.

The people Jesus lived in community with overwhelmingly fell into this category. Jesus himself was terribly, messily, painfully broken. He didn’t run from brokenness, he embraced it. If we have the courage to look beneath the surface, we’ll see that we are all terribly, messily, painfully broken. It’s the reality of living in a fallen world.

How we “do” church is a good indication that rather than embracing brokenness, we’re running from it. Maybe that’s why encountering an obviously broken person is so unsettling. It reminds us, on some level, of our true condition. Even if it’s just that we’re afraid, isn’t the Body of Christ called to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, shelter the homeless, and “not turn away from (our) own flesh and blood”, as Isaiah 58 puts it? When did “especially broken” people become the responsibility of social service agencies?

I would love to see the church become a community of people focused primarily on meeting the needs of those around us. I don’t think anything speaks more clearly of Jesus’ sacrificial love, especially as a witness to non-Christians, than going out of our way to help people in their time of need, with no expectation of anything in return, no hidden “soul winning” agenda. The focus of such a community would be to love, embrace and provide practical help, friendship and advocacy to people. People like the dishevelled man I drove away from a couple of years ago.

Painful? Yes. Real? Yes. Worth it? I think so.