By the River

On Saturday, I had one of those oh-so-brief encounters with a complete stranger. One of those encounters that changes something about you and the world and you don't exactly know what. I was in Kansas City's River Market area looking for a bike trail. There was much preparation for the trip and much frustration surrounding it. Just as my trip was ending--or my attempted trip I should say, I never sat on the seat, much less pedaled anywhere--I saw this guy.

I was pushing my bike coming from the river and he was headed toward it. I saw foot traffic on the bridge earlier and I swear I saw a sign about access to the riverfront area there as I was driving around. Since there were barricades and road closed signs, driving there was out of the question. But when I looked across the bridge and saw no one and couldn't find the sign I thought I saw, I decided to give up on the trip and head home. Then this guy asked me, "Can you get to the river on that bridge?"

I didn't know the answer. I didn't know even part of the answer. And I was hoping he could tell me where this ten mile seemingly fun trail was. As we stood talking, sun beating down on us, I began to size him up. I saw he had a backpack over one shoulder. Then I saw Scotch tape holding his glasses together. And just as I was mentally connecting all the dots, he said, "I'm staying by the river right now."

He went on to say something about how high the tide was and whether he could go down there. If I knew more about rivers, I would probably remember better. Then we went our separate ways. I loaded my bike and went home, disappointed by a plan gone awry and feeling the weight of that loneliness that is all too familiar with new city. I don't know where he went. He walked in the direction of the bridge, seemingly glad to know that I had seen people walking there earlier.

But the thing that has stuck with me is the reality of our mutual vulnerability and need of each other. I had tried calling or texting every person who could possibly help me find the parking that would lead to this trail and was completely unsuccessful. I don't know why he approached a young woman pushing a bike across an empty street, but reasonably, I was the only one there to ask. And it was a totally different encounter than I've ever had with a human being normally lumped into the category of "homeless."

For once, I didn't have the upper hand. People often come to my comfortable church office for some help with gasoline or a utility bill or rent. It's clear who has the upper hand there. But not this time. In fact, the conversation I shared with that man was the longest face to face conversation I had that day. He gave me more of his time than the yuppie I had approached earlier in my search. I was quite grateful to have run into him.

And unlike so many other times, all of which were in cooperation with some ministry, I wasn't told what to do or not do. I didn't think of him as homeless. He was just a man I met on the street with whom I traded information. Could he have done some harm to me? Probably. But was there anything about him that made me afraid? Not at all. We were just two people who happened to meet.

When two people so radically different (at least for the moment) stood face to face asking for the thing they need from the other, something happened. I'm not sure what exactly, but it probably has something to do with the stories of the first believers who shared all their possessions and met all their needs by doing so, stretching the story just a bit to go beyond possessions to something more like "all they had." It probably has something to do with seeing a bit more like Jesus did, not naming a problem as resulting from sin (and it follows, is therefore deserved). It probably means hearing the words so frequent in the Gospel, "Do not be afraid," again. But whatever that something different was,  I'm pretty sure that's closer to the church than anything with a steeple.