What If You Met Jesus On THe Street

I was walking down the street, absorbing the smells of a new culture. Mexico. I had read about it, seen pictures of it, and even tasted it in local authentic restaurants. But being here was something completely different - it was more joy and more sadness than I had expected.

I saw a man crouched in the corner of a building, hidden behind a three-foot-tall concrete wall. He watched the passersby but did not beg anything from them. I asked him if he would like some bread. He shouted something in Spanish back at me that I did not understand. I left the safety of my side of the wall, passing through the entrance to the small courtyard where the middle-aged man was sitting. I gave him a loaf of bread, which he eagerly began eating in front of me.

When I inquired his name, he said, "Jesus de Nazaret de la Cruz." Como? I didn't quite catch that. "Jesus de Nazaret de la Cruz," he reminded. Ah yes, of course. Jesus of Nazareth of the Cross. Crazy Catholic countries and their overly-religious-sounding names. This man was homeless, after all, and already seemed to be showing signs of mental illness. In my mind, I thought, "Suuuure, buddy."

Yet, when I looked into his eyes, I saw a familiar softness.

I was hungry, and you fed me.

I was thirsty, and you gave me drink.

I was a stranger, and you took me in.

I was having trouble making those verses practical. It was a nice idea, poetry even, but could it be literally true? In college, I learned all about the symbolism of the Bible and the importance of understanding the context of each story. What was the context here?

As you have done it to the least of these, you have done it to me. (Matthew 25)

And I smiled back at this man, who was my Savior with skin on. We conversed for I'm not sure how long. He sang a song for me about the Spirit of God living in him, and the Spirit inside of me sang back. He mentioned the Bible, and I brought out my Spanish New Testament.

He eyed it with the wonder of a child. Opening it with care, he picked out a familiar passage about Christ from one of the gospels and read it out loud and with pride.

He offered me some of his "water," and I told him he didn't need that. He had streams of living water flowing inside him. As I walked away, I caught a glance of him picking the Bible back up and reading another passage.
The Church has forgotten how to meet Jesus. We have forgotten that he will join us on the streets, in the most broken of places, and where he is, there is liberty. Go find it.