I wrote this back in February of 2020, just before the pandemic gripped the globe. It’s my reflection about the deep personal and theological struggle of shifting from theory to practice, the very struggle that remains alive today in my life as a student, believer, husband, and father.
Our lack of interaction with the poor has desensitized us to the truth that there are people in the world who do not look like us, think like us, dress like us, and live like us. There are people in the world who do not have the same privileges that we enjoy. Not only that, but our lack of interaction with them has also left us numb to the reality that these poor people are human beings just like us who also deserve to enjoy the privileges that we do.
The fact that there are people in our society who are treated as second-class citizens and reduced to statistics, and the fact that I, as a follower of Christ, have been called to journey with them, haunts me. It haunts me with questions like, “What are you doing here when there are people out there who need you?” or “Didn’t Jesus tell you to preach the gospel to the poor?”
There’s a thin line between conviction and condemnation, and I could either be hearing from God calling me to go out there, deny myself, and follow him. Or, I could be hearing from the devil condemning me and telling me I am not doing enough, and that I am a hypocrite who does not follow his words through with actions.
How could one move beyond loving the idea of ministering to the poor to actually ministering to them? This is a question I struggle with all the time. For years, I have filled my mind with verses like “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son. (John 3:16)” or “For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God. (Ephesians 2:8).”
I have comforted myself with verses like “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” while exegeting myself out of verses like “Defend the rights of the poor and needy. (Prov 31:8-9),” and “Religion that is pure and undefiled before God the Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction (James 1:27).”
Something is not right. I enrolled myself in a seminary to become a pastor—a minister of God and a servant to his people. And yet, while I sit inside the classroom learning Hebrew, Greek, Systematic Theology, and History of Doctrine, there are people outside the four corners of the university who need my service. People who do not care whether I know how to prepare a church liturgy or whether I know the Greek equivalent of a particular word in one of Paul’s epistles. People who would rather that I spend time with them and experience what they are going through than that I preach to them about a heavenly kingdom.
Of course, preaching God’s kingdom is important, but if my preaching does not go beyond the pulpit, then I am only preaching empty words. If my preaching does not lead me to actually extending a helping hand to the people I am preaching to, then I am preaching only with my lips—with fluency, but lacking the power to truly transform the lives of my listeners. The poor we will always have with us. The oppressed, the downtrodden, the victims of the system—these we will always have with us. But where do I go from here? Where do we go from here?
Right now, my heart is telling me that I am supposed to be where these people are. Yet, at the same time, logic tells me that I am supposed to be where I am right now, surrounded by these four walls, conveniently cooled by the air conditioning system, sitting in a comfortable chair, and studying about a God who, ironically, left the convenience of his throne and became one with—no—became the very people he is calling me to minister to.
If I’m going to ask myself, isn’t this the kind of fast that is acceptable before God, the kind of fast he has chosen? Is not loosening the chains of injustice, untying the cords of the yoke, and setting the oppressed free and breaking every yoke they have the kind of sacrifice that God has chosen? So, why am I here? Why am I not there? And what shall I cry? If I cry, “Send me,” will God actually send me? Will I actually go? But I cannot simply speculate. And there is only one way to find out: I must decide to traverse the road less traveled—to journey with the poor.
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