The hungry.  Hungry people. 

If you examine the structure of either of these references, you’ll notice that the primary emphasis is on the condition of being hungry.  In the case of the hungry, the word “people” isn’t even in the realm of consciousness.  “The hungry” serves as a defense mechanism, a way to categorize something that is undesirable and put it on a shelf at a safe distance so that we don’t have to feel a personal connection.  “The hungry” are simply out there…somewhere.  Nameless, faceless, and seemingly not even human or at least not deserving enough of a human reference. 

Photo by Paul Jeffrey/ACT International

Hungry people.  On the scale of objectification, this is better.  At least we are talking about people here, though again the emphasis is not on people but rather the condition of being hungry.  People comes last, and so psychologically our emphasis is still on fixing a condition rather than serving someone just like us—same age, same gender, same station in life relatively speaking—who happened to be born in a community or country where there are extremely limited resources. 

Let’s see if we can do better.  Okay, here’s one more attempt: 

People who are hungry.  Simply put, people come first.  We’re not trying to help feed a nameless breed of beings known as “the hungry” (akin to “the infected”).  We’re not trying to serve our neighbors, the “hungry people”—still defined by their condition rather than their self-identity as human beings.  Rather, we are ministering to people—people who happen to be hungry but are people first nonetheless.  They are Kennedy Symphorian, a skinny 15-year-old boy I met years ago in Tanzania who had HIV and whose non-traditional family eeked out a meager living and survived on assistance from an organization that received support from ELCA World Hunger dollars.  They are the children begging for handouts on the streets of Nicaragua, some of whom work the streets alone during the day while their parent(s) crowd into a tightly packed school bus and ride off to work in a sweatshop.  They are nameless strangers we meet on our streets who browse trash cans for food scraps, approach our rolled-up windows at a stoplight (maybe we look at them, maybe not), sleep on a doorstep in 15-degree weather.  They are us only with fewer resources and a harder way, trying to survive. 

We cannot afford to talk about people in any way less than the dignified manner all souls should be afforded.  We are all people first and foremost.  We are Christians, Muslims, writers, janitors, men, women, fast-food workers, nurses, crossing guards, students, tailors…we are who we are, defined by our humanity and our relationship to God. 

Let’s put people first instead of resorting to comfortable, overused phrases that define people by their condition.  Maybe next time you encounter “the other”—that perfect stranger who asks you for money because she probably really needs it—you’ll ask her name and be able to talk about the time you met Rhonda rather than “some homeless woman.”

On Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago, a man lingered on a street corner, examining a trash bin for items worthy of rescue.  He wore long sleeves and slacks—items that had seen their better days—even though the June air approached 75 degrees.  While pondering whether or not to approach him, give him a few bucks, or just walk by, I studied his face.  An unexpected peace emanated from his eyes.  Not a frantic or dejected survival instinct—no, that was not what was at work.  Clearly something unusual guided this man’s approach to the work of the moment.

I forgot about this man within a few minutes, days (for sure), and after a week I doubt I thought about that encounter.  A few weeks later, I walked the streets of St. Louis during the ELCA Youth Gathering.  One night, I saw the same man doing the same thing on a street corner not unlike the one where I’d met him in Chicago.  I confronted him, unable to determine how this was possible.  Was he the most ambitious traveling homeless man in the country?  Did he migrate from big city to big city when he’d seen all he cared to see?

“I saw you in Chicago a few weeks ago,” I said.

“No, sir.  You must be mistaken,” he replied.

“No, I’m sure I’m not,” I said.  There was no mistake.  “It was definitely you.  Downtown Chicago.”

The man studied my face, a slight grin on his face though his eyes conveyed utter surprise.  That evening, he was wearing a cap.  He removed it and motioned down his body as if to say ‘have a good look.’  “I don’t know what to tell you,” he said, smiling.  “Have a good night.”

I didn’t offer to help the man that night, just as I hadn’t a few weeks before.  It wasn’t my place.  Something much bigger was at work, something I only understood weeks or even months later.

I don’t recall when I have felt a stronger presence of God on earth, embodied in a man who carried his cross with no shame, sleeping wherever he probably could, living by the grace of God.  But that’s just the thing.  One can believe it was an ordinary man, and that built on my certainty that the two were not look-alikes, this homeless man happened to garner a way to St. Louis from Chicago.  Not only that, but I happened to encounter him of all people in both cities, weeks apart.

When we’re called to act, we must act.  But why is it that those in a position to offer help assume that is what is needed?  I realized only later that the reason I didn’t offer to help the man was that he was not the one who needed something.

I was.

-Aaron Cooper is Writer-Editor for ELCA World Hunger