I suspect that I’m not alone in feeling uncomfortable when I see someone on the street asking for money. Maybe it’s the reminder that even if all is well in my own world, there are others who aren’t making it. Maybe it’s because face-to-face it’s difficult to maintain the cool, distant sympathy I could feel when seeing a TV program or reading a magazine article on the homeless. Right there, on the street, what am I supposed to do?

I know what I used to do. Look away and walk faster. Secretly resent them for making me feel uncomfortable.

Then I became a Christian, and, like it or not, I had a new standard for behavior. It would be easier if the Bible told me to just write a check to good causes or be nice to my friends and family, but—rather inconveniently—it doesn’t. Instead, Christ says, “Just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to Me.” When I protest that the little I give can’t make a difference, I have to face His words: “Whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple—truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.”

I was in San Jose this week for a fencing tournament. One day as I was walking back from getting a cup of coffee, a man sitting on a bench asked me politely, “Spare change, ma’am?” I said, “I don’t have any change for you, but I can give you a bite to eat,” and gave him one of the granola bars I carry with me. He thanked me and I walked on. I figure, it’s not a bad approach: I don’t feel comfortable giving money, but everybody gets hungry, right? I felt awkward, but I also thought that I had done OK.

Just one block further, I saw a woman holding a cup for coins. Another one! Suddenly I was outside my comfort zone; I ducked into a gift shop in an avoidance maneuver. What to do? I told myself I was justified in walking by; after all, just two minutes ago I had helped somebody out! Am I supposed to give to every single person who asks me? What if there were a dozen, a hundred people waiting between me and my hotel room, all asking for change? I would run out of granola bars, and money, too!

But there weren’t a dozen beggars; there were just two.

I wanted to avert my eyes and hurry past. Instead, I made myself go over and make eye contact. The woman looked to be in her sixties, with a weary face. I said, more hesitantly this time, “I don’t usually give money, but I can give you a bite to eat—would that be OK with you?” She took my offered granola bar, looked at it and muttered, “Fine,” sounding disappointed.

It was an uncomfortable encounter, and as I continued on, I began to feel resentful. Having done a “good deed,” at some slight inconvenience, how come I didn’t at least get to feel good about myself? I wished I hadn’t stopped to give anything at all.

Then I realized: I was only thinking about my feelings; I was only concerned with what I wanted from the encounter, which was to be “rewarded” by a sense of generosity. With brutal clarity I saw my self-centered, sinful nature—and I didn’t like the sight one bit.

What I want is to not feel bad about seeing a homeless person. To be able to either walk away, or give—to my shame, I have to admit it doesn’t matter which!—without feeling that tension and awkwardness.

But what I want is not a reliable guide to what’s right. My very discomfort is a pointer that something is wrong in God’s creation. We should be caring for each other, in communities; the dispossessed, the alienated, the ill should not find themselves on the street. To be able to walk past without feeling pity or shame would be to reject the vision of God’s Kingdom on earth as it is in heaven.

It’s easier to write off the homeless as somebody else’s problem. It’s much easier to not care. That’s what I used to do, and to be honest it worked pretty well. I don’t think that’s an acceptable option anymore. On the other hand, to give a little and then congratulate myself for my charity seems to circle back to self-centeredness, in which even helping others is only done because it makes me feel good.

My discomfort puts me on the spot. If I give just because it makes me feel good, I am acting selfishly. If I walk by because it is easier, I am putting my own comfort above Christ’s commandment. At the very least, I have to force myself to look at the brokenness both in the world and within me. And seeing, what do I do?

I know I ought to love and care about every person I encounter—not just my friends, but the strangers on the street asking for change. But I don’t. In my moments of honesty, I see how far I am from loving my neighbor as myself. In my heart, I wish those strangers were begging on a different street so I wouldn’t have to see them; sometimes I really don’t care. I know that’s horrible, and I struggle with knowing that about myself. I struggle even with wanting to care, because sometimes I’m afraid of the demands that caring puts on me. If I care about more people, and more deeply about them, what will be asked of me? What parts of my self, my life, my behavior will have to change?

So I pray. I ask God to do whatever work He needs to in me, whether I like it or not at this moment. I ask Him to give me the desire to love more deeply. I look long and hard at myself and realize that wherever He has helped me to love more, and more fully, my life has indeed grown richer, so I thank Him and ask Him to help me to trust in Him as He continues that work.

My pastor has told me that “Love your neighbor” doesn’t mean “Have a feeling of love”. It means “Act in love.” We are like children who play at being grown-ups, anticipating the day when we will grow into those adult roles. We may not feel like loving our neighbor, but if we act as though we did, we are in the process of growing into that mature love. Or so my pastor tells me; I’m not there yet, not by a long shot. But I believe it, because I can see in him and in others what it looks like when Christ’s love shines right through them into the lives of the people around them. Right now I feel like I’m just muddling along and making a mess, but with God’s help I shall keep muddling through until I grow into the person He has made me to be.

If there is any truth in what I write, it is Christ’s alone.