El Roi - The One Who Sees

Yesterday, a church member from South Africa gave the sermon. He's been living in Seattle for over a decade and he spoke about something called the "Seattle Freeze", the idea that Seattle natives keep interactions at the surface level. Many who move here say that it is very difficult to make friends because of this widespread attitude. The speaker asked us to consider how Jesus interacted with the community of His time. Jesus saw people and then, He had compassion on them. Mark 5 talks about the unclean woman who touched Jesus' cloak and was healed. Jesus took space to see her, regardless of her social standing, and she left with a testimony of God's healing. He saw Zaccheus in the tree. He saw children, the lame, the high and mighty.

I hope you hear the weight of the word "see" when I write it here. What does it mean for Jesus to take notice of someone? I think it means that He values them and cares about what they're going through. I believe we are called to carry that out, daily, as He empowers us by the Holy Spirit to "see" our community the way He does, and then respond with compassion.

This is a story I wrote this summer about a woman in Beijing, whom I believe the Lord challenged me to "see":

When I lived in Beijing, I had all the adventure of new, strange experiences as well as access to comforts from the western world. In the same afternoon, I could watch a group of elderly men and women practicing tai chi in a park and buy a DVD of a movie that was still playing in American theaters. There was a street where you could eat scorpions or crickets on a stick and shop at an L.L. Bean two doors down. My mom used to ask if she could send me any foods I missed from home, but I always turned her down. In Beijing, most western foods are available to those willing to pay rather high prices for them. Whenever I wanted cold cereal, chocolate chips, muffin mixes, spaghetti sauce, or other comforts, I could go to one of several Jenny Lou’s stores. Jenny Lou’s shelves housed an assortment of European, American, and Canadian products. For a little while, I was hooked on some gingersnap cookies from Sweden. I couldn’t read the box, but I could certainly consume a sizeable amount of cookies on my bus ride. Since church was located a couple of blocks from a Jenny Lou’s, I got in the habit of going there every Sunday. I’d regularly buy whole wheat bagels, a baking mix, and a more expensive luxury like cheddar cheese before heading home. After several months of this ritual, I started avoiding Jenny Lou’s. After church, I’d eat with friends at the Tex-Mex restaurant next door, but then purposely circumvent the store on my way to the bus stop. The bagels weren’t worth the inner unrest I felt.

You see, to go into Jenny Lou’s you have to walk by Aiyi. You can’t miss her. If you walk anywhere within a fifty foot radius of the store, you will hear the coins in her paper cup clinking together as she rhythmically shakes it. Even if you’ve always been the shortest in your group of friends, you will likely tower over Aiyi. It may be because she’s extraordinarily short, or because she is perpetually stooped forward. Or maybe her humble status exaggerates her small stature. It’s hard to say. She’s a woman who blends in with her surroundings, yet demands notice. Your eyes may be tempted to let her fade into a wash of street busyness, but Aiyi won’t let that happen. She grabs pedestrians by the arm and doggedly presents herself to your senses. Aiyi smells like cooking grease. Cooking grease and earth. Tea-colored teeth testifying to years of no dental care smile up at you, her face giving way to a topographical map of wrinkles. A coarse piece of blue cloth serves as a head wrap over wiry salt and pepper strands that just peek out under the edges. You can’t help but wonder if the baggy Mao-era jacket she wears once belonged to a husband. If so, where is he now? At the end of the day, does she go home to him and compare stories over a bowl of steaming noodles or is she already home, on the steps of Jenny Lou’s? You wonder if she has friends who understand her better than you do.

She used to call me “peng you”, the Chinese word for friend. When she reached out, I’d hold her hand, but never without a slight pause in that moment when her rough and gnarled converged with my soft and pampered. Jenny Lou’s workers would look at us skeptically, as if to ask, “How did she dupe that foreigner into taking her inside?” Aiyi had the freedom from me and the natural nerve God gave her to request anything in the store, yet every time, she chose two large containers of just-add-water Ramen noodles. They were too high on the shelf, of course, so Aiyi would hop in place and point until I grabbed them for her. Once, she asked for some Pantene shampoo. Since I couldn’t read characters, I held up the bottles, expecting her to distinguish which one was shampoo and which was conditioner. It turned out that Aiyi couldn’t read either. She opened the bottle, took a deep whiff, and deemed it good.

I had enough money for whatever Aiyi wanted. Still, she required too much of me. Our interactions stirred questions that I didn’t like. Questions that revealed my doubt, my selfishness, and my immaturity. Did she call everyone “peng you” and was that just a ploy to make people compassionate towards her? Does she dirty her face on purpose? Surely she could wash at a public park restroom. Was she even homeless, or was this just a lazy way to make money? The time she asked for Pantene, I wondered why the generic Chinese brand wasn’t good enough for her. So, I avoided Jenny Lou’s. Not because I didn’t have the money to help Aiyi. Not because I stopped wanting whole wheat bagels for breakfast. Not because it was out of the way. I hated feeling obligated to help someone. I wanted it to be a choice; one that allowed me to check a “do good” box on some cosmic to do list. What if I went to Jenny Lou’s and said no to her? Could I do that? That would be genuine to how I felt many times, but somehow being superficially generous was the only adequate action.

There are days when I want to emulate Mother Teresa. To give with abandon, touch the untouchable, and live without barriers. I want to throw off my desire to get credit for what I do. I want to make real, lasting changes in the world. When the rubber meets the road, sometimes the Mother Teresa in me shows up. I hold Aiyi’s hand and look her in the eyes. I tell her “Yesu ai ni” - Jesus loves you. I truly care. Just as often, I’m confronted with my failings. I may not be holding a paper cup of coins, but amidst all of the western comforts at my disposal in Beijing, I am needy. At the end of the day, all I can say is, “Jesus help Aiyi. Jesus help me.”
- - - -
Please note: the photo I used is from an online source. This is not actually the Aiyi I knew.