"I once heard the saying, "God comforts the disturbed and disturbs the comfortable." In my suburban comfort, I increasingly felt disturbed by God. I became very uncomfortable in the comfortable suburbs. The beautiful thing was my discomfort arose not from a cynical judgementalism but from a longing for something more. I did not want to settle for a life detached from the groaning of the slums or the beauty of plaiying in open fire hydrants and having block parties in the inner city. I wanted to see the community of Willow Creek shared with the lonely suffering masses that needed it so badly but would never make it to Barrington. The more I read the Bible, the more I felt my comfortable life interrupted." [Shane Claiborne, "the Irrestible Revolution"]

I really wish my experience had been the same. I remember working in downtown Toronto, and walking Yonge Street every day to and from the restaurant. There was a glut of beggars on the market then; they were everywhere. It felt like running a gauntlet, sometimes. You develop rules for yourself - don't make eye contact, walk along the curb, keep moving - as you attempt to pass the beggars with your emotions unscathed. It became easier to do with practice, and in the end, I'm sorry to say, they never got a cent from me. They never got acknowledgement that they existed, that they were human, that they mattered to God, or me, or anyone else, for that matter. Instead they received my contempt and scorn.

The poor were never discussed in church. I remember one particular Bible Chapel we briefly attended as a family, a tiny, wooden building with a rackety piano and creaky floorboards. We sweltered in June and shivered in January on hard wooden chairs; a tiny raft of faith kept afloat by one faithful servant of God and his family. It all seems so beautiful now. We never discussed God's love for the poor mostly because we were all poor together. Absent that exception, I don't know what to say. I never heard about God's love for the destitute and downtrodden, never heard the prophets cry out for justice. It wasn't in our Sunday School classes, it wasn't in the sermons, it wasn't in the music, it wasn't anywhere, and it certainly wasn't modelled.

None of this, however, excuses my adult way of insulated thinking, feeling, and living. The Mission has been a transformative experience, and now I find myself struggling to not be judgmental with those who don't 'get it'. That's not easy - I want to bellow and roar. And frankly, somebody needs to. There are problems inherent in the Mission's structure as well - no ministry is or can be perfect. But when I look at the way Christ lived and the way we live I have to wonder, is it really enough for the disciple to be as his master? Or have we become someone altogether different? We are hipsters and cool-cats and frauds - almost every one of us - as we soak in the radiated glory of ourselves, and I top the list. I have quite literally walked the streets downtown and wept, crying over what we've done to Jesus - and yet am fully aware that I'm not willing to give it all up for the very same Jesus.

When I look back on running that gauntlet of beggars on Yonge Street I can't help but wonder if it would have killed me to put a lousy quarter in every dirty, upturned ball cap and say hello. What would it have cost me? A couple of bucks a day - far less than what I spend at Starbucks for a latte. I know - there's lots of places for street people to get food and shelter, so 'should' I have done it? I don't know - the word 'should' carries a lot of baggage. But really, how much would it have hurt? How much could it possibly have cost? Why did I make a touch from Jesus' hand and a few healing words from his lips so hard to come by?

We all see ourselves walking along the road with Jesus, off to someplace else, busy for the kingdom, en route to a miracle. Few of us realize that we're the ones sitting at the side of the road, blind since birth. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to start hollering for Jesus to stop here. I'm ready - so ready - to feel his palms holding my face, to hear him ask what it is I really want.

Lord, I want to see.