For the Love of God

One sad thing here that is in no way unique to Spain is beggars. Few things create such a continuous re-evaluation of my faith and how to practically show it as do beggars.

In a huge city like Madrid there are so many. It is a wonder they aren't trampled, as some sit in the middle of huge sidewalks with just a sign and a cup in front of them. Once I saw important people in expensive suits taking large steps over the prosthetic legs of a dour man in dirty clothes, seated in the Puerta del Sol. And others hold in front of them a picture of family to whom they wish to be rejoined but cannot afford to. Others sit in the entryways of cathedrals with their whole body wrapped up in blankets yet shivering furiously nonetheless.

You see no flesh. You only see a cup.

In the bus station I am asked for money by teens covered in piercings or by Romanian men, their nationality recognizable by their characteristic grammatical errors and sadly by the alcohol on their breath. Regardless of if I give them money or not, they ask the next person, too.

I hate the feeling I fet then. The same feeling as when I see the same beggar with the prosthetic legs talking uproariously on his cell phone the next time I pass. The same feeling as when I see one beggar dump her cup of coins into a larger, hidden on almost full of money.

It is insulting to be taken advantage of, but did that ever stop Jesus? He healed and loved people that never confessed him as Lord and God. When did he pass the needy by?

When did he look at a man and see no flesh? When did he see only a cup?