As I stood there, I heard a shuffling sound coming from up the street. I leaned forward and looked toward town, and I saw a teenage boy with his head hanging low staggering down the street in my direction. He swayed in one direction and then the other as he took inconsistent steps, dragging his feet over the dirt-coated road. Now, seeing an inebriated fellow stumbling down these streets is not unusual here. His age is actually what most struck me. This boy looked to be seventeen or eighteen years old. He also looked like he could have been my neighbor from very nearby. These two things caused this to hit me a little harder than usual. Why does this kid feel the need to drink? And who is waiting for him at home? And what if he passes out or hurts himself before he makes it home like so many men do.
And then it didn't matter whether or not he was the neighbor that I knew. (It wasn't, by the way.) Whether I knew him or not, he was someone's son. Someone's brother. Someone as special to God and as valued by God as I am. And someone who likely didn't know that. And I hurt for him.
I watched him continue to stagger back and forth and lean heavily against the wall of the tienda caddy-corner from our house. He spoke slurred, indiscernible words to himself and then continued on his way, veering left up a street right before our house and disappearing from sight. I could hear his shoes dragging through the dirt and grinding against the concrete of the road as he drew a little further away, and then the noise stopped. I suddenly had to know if he was okay. My little brother, Jonathan, had just found me on the balcony (remember, I was supposed to be engaged in a game of hide-and-seek) so I was free to go check on this kid as my family continued the game. I walked quickly down the steps to our courtyard and then slipped out the door of our gate, leaving it slightly cracked for an easy, quiet return to the house, and I slipped up the road a few yards until I could see down that side street.
When I had been watching from the upstairs balcony, I had wanted to run down and out the gate and grab this kid's arm to steady him and walk him to wherever his home might be. He was so young. And he just kept nearly hitting his head on the wall each time he steered toward it for support. But I had quickly ruled that out because of course it was absurd. Me, a white girl, walking a drunk Guatemalan boy past all of our mutual neighbors and to his door step. How absurd! No, I wouldn't be so foolish. But I had to make sure that this guy was okay.
So now I watched as he leaned even heavier against a door further down the street. His door? I couldn't know. His head hung too low, and I couldn't read his movements at all. Nothing today will give away his normal behavior or appearance. But even as he stumbled back by some unseen force, he overcompensated and swung again toward that door in front of him. His weak efforts seemed to be aiming to stay near to that entrance. It must have been his place of refuge. At least for now. After swaying back and forth as if weakly riding a wave, he leaned down, hands outstretched to find rest on the ground. But his balance was now gone and muscles uncontrolled, and gravity won. Within a few inches of the ground, his head suddenly lurched forward and met the concrete with a thud. He immediately went limp and sprawled to the ground, now unmoving.
My stomach flipped at the sound of that thud and my heart leapt to my throat. I thought I might get sick right there. But I turned quickly for the house to find...my dad? ...Maybe my brother? I found Jeremiah first, in the kitchen, and I quietly updated him (little ears nearby). He offered to accompany me and we headed for the gate again, discussing what we could possibly do when we got there. But only seconds later, as we peered up the side street, we saw that two men had come out of that house and were now hulling the kid from under his arms back into that house. He was being tended to (hopefully), so we turned and headed back. Back to our door. Back into the house. Back to our family game of hide-and-seek which was coming to a close.
I was relieved that there is nothing more I could do, and I spent the following minutes reflecting on all that had happened. I thought about how I wished I could have rushed to that kid and grabbed his arm and walked him home. Spoke gently the words of God's love for him and the hope that could be his own even to his muddled mind in hopes that he would somehow recall them later, once his mind was clear. Knocked on the door that he claimed as his own. Handed him over to whoever opened that door from the other side. Showed love to the family by simply handing him over with only concern and no judgement. But that hadn't been an option.
First of all, I am a young white girl in a town full of men who drink more than their fill and are found staggering in the direction of home on holidays or game days or days that just seem like a day to escape the pressures of life. I would look absolutely foolish and culturally unaware to all of the neighbors if I were to walk a drunk boy home. It's expected that men will get drunk and it is expected that they will stumble home. And if they pass out along the street, it's expected that they'll find their way home once they wake up hours (sometimes many hours) later... unless, of course, their family has too much shame to leave them there or enough grace to hull him into a tuk-tuk and head home before he wakes up. These are the natural consequences of foolish decisions. It's just how it works. And what about the image that it would put on myself and my family if it were to be rumored that I had been out with a young drunk boy, walking our very streets? That certainly wouldn't have brought glory to God or brought credibility to our ministry!
So of course I had done the right thing by staying back and just watching from a distance to make sure he got home okay.
Or had I?
I started thinking of that question that has been emphasized over and over again. You know...WWJD. What Would Jesus Do? But frankly, I couldn't figure it out. Jesus was a guy, not a girl. Guys can pull these types of things off better than girls can. And, anyway, He never told me what to do about a drunk kid in the street. But then I started to think through what Jesus did do.
In Matthew 9:9-13 He sat down and ate with tax collectors and sinners in the very house of a tax collector, who was hated by the people. (Both within the church and out)
In John 8:1-11 He stood up for and pardoned the adulterous woman caught in sin.
In Mark 1:40-42 He touched an unclean man who was considered an outcast to society.
In Mark 5:24-34 He blessed a unclean woman for touching the hem of his robe in faith even though she did so without his permission.
All I see from reading the gospels is Jesus reaching. Loving. Touching. Speaking truth. And not to the lovable, accepted, and valued members of society. To the outcasts. To the unclean. To the sinners. To the despised.
And, more importantly, never once do I see Him refrain from doing any of this because it fell outside of cultural standards or because it would make Him and His ministry look bad to those in the church or those judging from a distance. Because frankly, His concern was for those in front of Him. ("It is not the healthy who need a doctor but the sick." Matthew 9:12)
So back to that boy in the street. Back to me. Let me try the reasoning for my decision again. ...It is foolish in this culture... And, what was the other? Oh, yeah....it would look bad to my other neighbors...
Alright, and what excuses did I just say never stopped Jesus from acting? Oh, right! It was those two.
And what did I say He always kept doing? Reaching, loving, touching, and speaking truth...to the outcasts, the unclean, the sinners, and the despised.
Do I need to spell out the conclusion?
So, is it our responsibility to walk every drunk man home? Maybe not. (I said 'maybe'.) Are we to break every cultural boundary and ignore every safety precaution? No. But what I am saying, and what I believe IS Biblical, is that those should not be the starting points nor the determining factors. Instead, our first response should be to reach, love, and speak truth. Because that is what Jesus did. Maybe the question we should be asking ourselves is "what did Jesus do?" and "what didn't Jesus do?". (Because frankly, sometimes we give ourselves too much freedom to explain away and prioritize based on our own ideas when we ask "What would Jesus do?"...and never mind the fact that it has become so cliche that it describes a bracelet more than a way of life.)
So what if we stayed in the Word?
What if we challenged our every decision by holding it up to the life of our Savior?
What if we actually made life changes when it didn't line up?
What is we lived so that our first response was to act and our only hesitation came when we heard God whisper "wait...not this time" or "not this way".
Would our lives look different than they do now? Absolutely.
But only now do I realize how extreme the difference would be. To this thought of reaching out to the boy in the street, my first and only answer to myself was, "How silly! Of course not." How many other opportunities do I skip over every day with that very response? In fact, it's so programmed into me that I don't even think those words. I don't even see the opportunities. The alternative response of doing something rarely even crosses my mind. "Oh, look! Another drunk guy I'm Guatemala. Surprise, surprise." Maybe the fact that I even have moments like this one (even thinking to walk alongside of this kid, even though I immediately ruled it out) shows progress in me. Sad, huh?
What are we missing? And what is the world missing as a result? We have done terribly at being a city on a hill and lamp in a stand. Maybe it's because we've forgotten whose standards we are supposed to be living by.
I don't know about you, but I need a reboot. Because human reasoning still makes a lot of sense to me. And I have a feeling it makes a lot of sense to just about all of you...if not all of you. Let's really evaluate things here. What did our Jesus look like and why don't we look like him?
And finally, we need to seriously consider what kind of advice we, Christ-followers, are giving one another. Because most of us, even with the best intentions, will offer a lot of human logic. In fact, I would imagine some of you are itching to write me right now and say, "Brittney, no! Good efforts and sweet heart, but you just can't walk a drunk guy home!" Honestly, I wouldn't blame because I keep wrapping around to these thoughts myself. But if we are going to carry this title of "Christian" or "Christ-follower", we have to ask ourselves: are we following Christ or are we following our own cultural and/or religious expectations?
Help me by never giving me quick or soft answers and human suggestions. And let me do the same for you. Let's drop our own ideas and expectations in order to see/hear His. Let's be the hands and feet of Jesus starting now.
It will be great to see how lives change as we start looking like fools. Be a "fool" with me?
