Chapter Two: The Mad Hatter
Yesterday was Halloween, and for a moment, I thought I was going to have to dress up as a human shield.
I had stopped by one of the regular spots where I sometimes found people holding signs or sleeping beneath the awnings of closed stores. There was a chill in the air, and I had extra blankets and food in the car—just enough to offer some warmth for someone preparing to brave the coming cold. I spotted a man on the curb, weather-worn and still. He held a cardboard sign with quiet desperation, the kind you only notice if you're really looking.
Before I could approach him, another man pulled up in a truck and got out, carrying a to-go container. My heart warmed. Aww, look at that, I thought. Someone bringing him lunch. The world really is full of good people. I smiled in his direction, comforted by what I assumed was a shared purpose.
But I had misread the moment.
The man with the to-go container didn’t hand over lunch. He didn’t kneel or offer a kind word. He stood tall—towering, really—and unleashed a storm.
“I’ve seen your kind around here,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air. “I don’t like you coming in these establishments, using the bathrooms. Why are you distracting drivers? You need to go do something with your life and quit being lazy!”
I stepped instinctively between them. It wasn’t courage, not really. It was more like disbelief—an internal voice saying, Surely this isn't happening. But it was. I had become a human shield.
The man sitting on the curb didn’t argue. He didn’t raise his voice or look for an exit. He just sat there, the weight of the insults seeming heavier than the cold he was about to face that night.
Then the final blow came.
The man looked directly at me and said, “Do you really think you can help him, ma’am? I go to church, but this is different.”
That line burned its way into my spirit.
I go to church, but this is different.
Suddenly, my empathy shifted—not just toward the man on the curb, but toward the one with the finger pointed in accusation. I wondered what must have happened in his life to close his heart so tightly. What gospel had he been taught that stopped at the church doors? What Jesus did he know?
I watched as my new homeless friend accepted a blanket and a few packs of food, his “thank you” as quiet and deep as his suffering. But it was the man who had come full of condemnation who walked away carrying something heavier—something that can’t be fixed with a blanket or a meal. He walked away with a heart cloaked in pride and a soul untouched by compassion.
As I got back in my car, the words of Jesus echoed in my thoughts: You are the light of the world. And I found myself asking—what kind of light are we, really?
It’s easy to shine around those who look like us, think like us, act like us. But what about when we’re asked to shine in the shadows? What about when love demands we stand in the cold, in the tension, in the in-between? What does our faith look like then?
This wasn’t the first time I had seen a man judged for being poor. It wouldn’t be the last. But something about the sharp contrast between the words, “I go to church” and the actions that followed made this moment feel like a mirror. And the reflection wasn’t easy to look at.
Final Takeaways:
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True faith isn’t proven inside a sanctuary—it’s revealed in the street, the shelter, the unseen spaces.
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It’s not enough to “go to church”—we are called to be the Church.
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When love costs us our comfort, our pride, or our plans, that’s when it most resembles the love of Jesus.
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The light of Christ doesn’t flicker in familiar places—it shines brightest in the dark.
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Condemnation is easy. Compassion is holy.
Jesus didn’t pass by the hurting. He sat with them. He ate with them. He saw them.
And if we want to walk with Him—we have to be willing to do the same.
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