They limp along highway exit ramps, wander around business districts and spend large chunks of time splayed out in library easy chairs.
People assign them different names: homeless, down-and-outers, beggars, panhandlers and other words and phrases that are decidedly less sympathetic. As for me, I have another description: They embody one of the most confounding dilemmas I face.
There’s stuff that I thought I’d figured out before becoming a dad, only to learn that I didn’t have even a remote clue. And then there are those things that I knew I hadn’t come close to figuring out before the kids came, and now it’s even more perplexing.
High atop this list is the answer to the following question:
What is the appropriate response to strangers who ask me for money, particularly when Zachary and Maggie Rose are with me?
Over the years, my response has been all over the map. I’ve given small sums of money, typically $1 or less. I’ve given protein bars and fast-food restaurant gift certificates, purchased specifically for this purpose. I have taken a minute or two to try to connect with the person and find out their story, and encourage them in some way.
Rarely do I move on with a strong sense that I’ve handled things appropriately. When I give money, I have the nagging sense that I’ve helped perpetuate someone’s character weakness or substance abuse addiction. And when I don’t give money, I have an uneasy feeling that I have been callous and selfish.
The question of how to model appropriate behavior for my children triggers a host of other thorny questions:
Should my response be different when I’m with the kids, versus those times when I’m on my own? Am I hypocrite if I don’t behave the same way, regardless of who is watching? (Besides, on a spiritual level, isn’t there One who is always watching?)
Should I use the request as an opportunity to give, and thereby teach my children about compassion and generosity? Or maybe it’s a chance to say “no,” and teach them discernment and…and, what? Safety? How to seal yourself off from the difficulties of the world? What exactly would those other lessons be?
My pastor has consistently exhorted his flock to give money, and to give in the name of Jesus Christ, in those situations. And, sometimes, I do just that. But my practice, I suspect, is about as inconsistent as many Christians and people of other faiths do as they seek to sow some spirituality into the transaction.
Most of the time, when strangers—typically middle-aged men—ask me for money, I don’t see them in the same light as the widows, the orphans, the physically disabled or the leprous whose plight is recounted in the Bible. Far from being clearly in need, these folks more closely resemble slick salesman—they are able-bodied, have enough wits about them, and their sales pitch is a self-portrait of haplessness and hopelessness.
And most of the time, I simply don’t buy it.
Instead, I see the three servants in the parable of Matthew 25:14-30. One hid his master’s money in the ground, rather than work to make it grow. “You wicked, lazy servant…throw that worthless servant outside,” the master responds, instructing the money to go to one of the other, more faithfully productive servants.
I don’t say that, though. No, I avert my eyes and suddenly become deaf as strangers start issuing their request. I begin to dial (or—am I the only one who’s done this?—pretend to dial) my mobile phone. If I’m in my car with the kids, I develop this abrupt urge to engage in a quality conversation with them about last night’s dinner.
Recently, one guy on the highway exit ramp has taken to smoking a cigarette as he trolls past cars with drivers anxiously waiting for the light to turn green. Secretly, I’ve been thankful for his public-relations faux pas, because it has given me an easy excuse to roll up my window. That’s being a responsible dad, right? I would never think of exposing my kids to such offensive smoke.
But I know, like the pantomime cell phone chats and the averted eyes, that it’s just another smokescreen wafting over this haziness in my life.
For over a decade now, I’ve asked people I greatly respect to tell me what they do when confronted by strangers seeking money. Sometimes the plea comes with a story—they need train fare, or gas money, or even baby formula (that one can pull on your heartstrings, or enrage you, depending on your perception of the request’s integrity).
The cumulative effect has been even more fuzziness on what to do in any given interaction. But the advice that has made the most sense is to issue a quick, silent prayer for discernment in making the right decision.
Not that I’ve always heeded even that wisdom. Increasingly, I must confess, I’ve prayed instead for a quick escape path.
For the kids’ first year or two of life, as I pushed them around in the stroller, I got a free pass on this issue. There was something about the sight of my curled-up infants that gave a stiff-arm to would-be panhandlers: “Give this guy some space!”
But that phase is no longer. Nowadays, at least once a week I’m face to face with this dilemma. So far I’ve pretty much skirted around it, essentially using my preoccupation with the kids, real or contrived, as a buffer between a stranger’s request and my indecision.
My kids are watching, though. And soon they will begin looking to me for answers. What would you do if you were in my shoes? More to the point—how, and what, are you doing in your own shoes?