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I had only the slightest experience with beggars until my wife and I went to Africa as missionaries. When I was a boy a shabbily dressed man once knocked at our back door. From the yard I watched my mother speak to him, disappear, then reappear with plate of food in her hand. He took it, sat down on the grass, ate it and left.

“Who was that,” I asked. “A tramp,” she said. “What’s a tramp?” I asked. “Somebody who travels without money and asks people for something to eat when he’s hungry.” A mixture of emotional questions welled up in me not unlike those I have felt so many times since. “Why didn’t that man have any money?” “Why should my mother be feeding him?” “Shouldn’t something be done about people in that situation?”

I responded to the rattle of the front gate one day during our first weeks in Africa. Three men stood there in tattered clothes, one with his hand extended. But the open palm had no fingers. In a flash I realized I was looking at a leper for my first time, a leper silently signaling for help. I hastily searched my pocket for a coin, balanced it on the sandpaper-like stump of a hand, and watched it slide and fall to the ground. Embarrassed, I picked it up and fumblingly got it into the leper’s pocket. With a slight nod the three men turned and shuffled away. I walked back to the house trembling.

Thirty-seven years later, I still can’t confront a beggar without emotion. It’s the people who come to our door with their stories that are the hardest on me. I don’t know if their stories are true. If they are, why are they coming to me? If I give am I just encouraging more begging? But how will I feel if I refuse? What do I think of myself in the light of 1 John 3:17: “If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him?” What does God think of my decisions not to give?

Other foreign missionaries and national Christians struggle similarly. I heard one say, “The tropical heat, the dust, the insects are easy to deal with compared with the daily cries of the needy for help. That is the single most difficult challenge of being a missionary.” The pressure is with us every day, unrelenting, unremitting. A few weeks ago I saw a missionary leave the field, pushed over the edge partly by the stress created by one particularly persistent beggar-acquaintance.

It’s terribly tempting to retreat into our home culture of entertainment and convenience, to avoid seeing the ragged, sickly, poor people of the world on a daily basis. You can almost forget that beggars exist. But once you have lived among them, even if you can get out of their sight, it’s hard to get them out of your heart. And so, regardless of our official responsibilities we must ask, “Lord, what do you want me to do about these needy people?”

My wife and I are still searching for answers. But we’ve started taking the initiative instead of just waiting for impoverished people to come to us. We try to invest time and resources in alleviating some area of need that produces beggars.

For example, many refugees are among the legitimate beggars in the city in which we live. Due to changing political conditions, many could now return home and live productively, but they lack money for travel. So, we are providing the finances necessary to help repatriate a number of these families—thanks to a funding source and trustworthy local Christians.

Recently one of these Christians conducted a refugee family across the river that separates our city from the refugee family’s country of origin. As they landed on the beach a child asked his father, “Are we in Congo now?” “Yes, son,” the father replied. “Then this is our country, isn’t it?” the boy asked. “Yes, son. This is our country.”

Helping a family go home and become self-reliant again for a modest financial sum is deeply satisfying rather than depressing and guilt-producing. We have enjoyed giving gifts for widows, war orphans and the elderly through deacons’ funds of certain African churches. We also assisted in New York City homeless shelters when we lived there.

One benefit of such planning is that when we are accosted by a beggar, even if we choose not to give, we can say to the person and to ourselves with conviction, “I am doing what I believe I can to help people like you. But I have my limits. Please forgive me that I cannot help you today.” The Wolof people of Senegal believe that asking for pardon somehow helps preserve the dignity of the one asking for help.

By trial and error, and by seeking the leading of God’s Spirit, we all must look for ways to respond constructively to the poor, to the needy, to those who ask for help. Paul told his Galatian readers of the moment when James, Peter and John had agreed that he should go as a missionary to the Gentiles. “All they asked was that we should continue to remember the poor, the very thing I was eager to do” (Gal. 2:10).

But we must also find ways to set reasonable limits to what we do. Paul writes, “Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people” (Gal. 6:10). The important phrase for me is, “as we have opportunity.” This reminds me that I am not the Messiah. I can’t meet all the needs of the world. But I do have opportunity to address some of them. I need wisdom and discernment to figure out which are really my opportunities. But as I do, I find I am able to rejoice in what I can contribute rather than live in guilt and shame over what I can’t reasonably do. And, it’s a special joy to seize such opportunities together with a spouse, a friend or a small group of people with a similar vision.

It’s right that beggars stir our emotions. It’s also right that we each find fitting, appropriate ways to respond. This may not be in our job description as missionaries. But it’s a big part of what makes us authentic disciples of Jesus Christ. No, we can’t close our hearts. Yes, we do have limits. “Lord, help us find the balance you want for us in each situation.”

June 21, 2002