Caesar Won

When I came to work one day last week, I found a man asleep on the patio. It's a gated area, so somehow, he knew how to get in. I assume he was homeless. Why else would someone sleep on the concrete on a day when it would be well over a hundred degrees?

I went to my office to figure out what to do, leaving him asleep on the patio for a bit longer. Eventually, I went out on the patio to talk to him, offer him some water, and ask him to leave. Asking him to leave was always part of the equation.

When I opened the door from inside the building out to the patio, I heard an unfamiliar grating noise. Chairs had been placed in front of the door, assuring that he would awaken if anyone opened it. Sure enough, he jumped up at the noise. The conversation that followed was anything but holy.

He wanted a ride to the hospital. He wouldn't believe I was the pastor. I didn't believe his claim that he was dying. I wasn't about to be alone in my car with him and I was trying to figure out why this clean, decently well dressed man was there at all. Soon, he was accusing me of badgering him and asking me to call the police. Finally, he refused to leave unless they came.

As I walked back into my office to place the call, I realized he probably wanted to get arrested. Doing so meant a cool place to spend the day--it's Arizona, it gets hot--and a meal or two. The only problem with this plan is that the last thing I wanted to do was call the police.

I'm still young enough that police presence is more unnerving than comforting. They're here about the party or the wayward friend or all those other things that 20 somethings do that attracts police attention. The thought of asking them to come wasn't at all appealing.

I also knew this wasn't an emergency that warranted dialing 911; therefore, I had no idea how to call the police. Google gave me the number; that was the wrong place, though. The church is on a county island, so I needed to call the sheriff's office instead.

Begrudgingly, I dialed the number for the sheriff's office, the very one where Sheriff Joe reigns supreme. As I spoke to the dispatcher, I heard the gate open and saw the man leave, but not before was looking through the window in my office to see if I was actually calling the police. The dispatcher said they'd send someone any way. I thanked her and hung up. By that time, the man was nowhere to be seen.

Still, I checked to make sure the doors were locked.

A few days later, I still don't think I could have done much differently. Still, I have this niggling thought day in and day out: Caesar won. Caesar got what belonged to God.

I let the story of my culture win, not God's story. My culture says that man might have been dangerous. My culture says I'm a woman, so I should be even more afraid. My culture says to call someone with a badge and a gun, someone who can remove the person who subsists at the margins of society. My culture says to mediate the help offered, otherwise "they" will come back and send their friends, too. Each of those sentences warrants a long discussion. It doesn't change the fact that, when I tell this story, Caesar won, not God.

God's story says again and again, "Don't be afraid." God's story says again and again the the marginalized, the poor, the ones crying out for help at the side of the road are the very ones who deserve compassion. God's story places the people at the margins of society at the center of God's story. God's story is one that knows people in need will stop you in crowds, dig holes through your roof, grab your clothing as you walk by. God's story knows all of the problems with saying yes. God's story says yes anyway.

Next time, somehow, God's story will win. God's story will be the one I tell. Next time, God will get what rightfully belongs to Her.