Will He Ever Smile

As I walk through my kitchen I can sense he’s staring at me. His name is Alfan. He’s five years old. I choose to ignore him as I move through the routine of my life. As I return to the kitchen and approach the refrigerator I quickly glance to see if he’s still there. He is, and he’s still staring at me with a look that conveys both sadness and questioning. A second photograph of Alfan - at 10 years old - is also adhered to our refrigerator door slightly above the first photo. He’s standing next to a pile of garbage. His more mature face again conveys sadness. But this time there’s less questioning and more anger.

I’ve never actually met Alfan. My family began sponsoring this Indonesian boy about six years ago, in part, to help our own children grow in compassion and awareness of others. I try to remember to pray for him every time we write the monthly $30 check to the sponsoring organization. I know I should do more but he’s just a photo and his voice is very quiet. My wife is more burdened for Alfan than I. Last month I walked into the kitchen to find my wife talking to the refrigerator. I felt like I was interrupting an intimate moment between the two. In a voice filled with frustration she said to me, “Do you know what I pray for,” pointing to Alfan. “I pray we’ll one day receive a picture where he’s smiling.” Recognizing this was not the time to be witty I chose not to vocalize my thought: “I’d smile if someone gave me $30 a month.” It was an ugly thought because I was partially serious. We had been missionaries for three years, relying on God, using the generosity of others to support our ministry. I knew that any regular commitment can make a big difference. Financially supporting someone makes you an integral part of the team. Yet, I knew that a monthly check with an obligatory prayer for a Muslim boy looked anemic in the bright light. It wouldn’t make him smile.

One Sunday at our church I was teaching an adult class on the origin of the Bible. After the class concluded an older man with a penchant for flaming criticism approached me with a red face. He wasn’t smiling. Since there were no friendly faces seeking my attention I was forced to engage him. He got right to the point - “Did you actually say that one of the overriding themes of the Bible was relationships?” “Sure did, John.” With veins bulging in his neck he replied: “No it’s not!” Knowing he was a dogmatic thinker with a high need for control I said in a calm voice, “Prove me wrong, John. Prove to me the covenants of the Old Testament were not about God seeking to restore His relationship with us. And what about the prophets? Then wrestle with the Jesus thing, and dig into everything He taught us about our relationships with others and how we’re actually supposed to relate to those in need.” I admit it was fun to take a swing at someone who habitually swung at others. John was angry and legalistic because his God was not burdened with relationships. Jesus was more of a mechanism than a Savior. But as John silently stared at me before walking away, the look on his face left me cold. It was that of a 10-year-old Muslim boy named Alfan - sad and angry.

It hit me hard. I had no right to condemn John, because I too had removed the relationship from God’s message. Jesus repeatedly asked us feed the hungry, clothe the needy and protect the widow and oppressed. But with Pharisee-like ease I had separated God from my pre-determined solution to the problem. I was helping solve poverty with all the effort it took to browse through a catalog. Ironically, it was a catalog and a boy near Alfan’s age that finally helped me see this. As sponsors of Alfan we receive an annual Christmas gift catalog offering items to donate to those in need. Give money to provide a farm animal, clean well, school supplies, immunizations or a myriad of other great things. My 11-year-old son came to the breakfast table one morning and shared that he dreamed he won $10,000 in a contest by correctly answering “who was the first pilgrim governor.” After sharing what I deemed to be a fifth grade stress dream he sat down and began looking at the donation catalog. With great encouragement I started suggesting ways he could spend his imaginary $10,000. He could provide 133 goats or 150 fish ponds for an African community. His benevolence could dig two safe drinking water wells or protect 243 children with immunizations. He thought about this and said, “That would be great! But would you spend your real money on this?” Ouch.

Part of my problem is that I have placed comfortable limits around my altruism. The extent of my relationship with most of my fellow citizens of the world has been reduced to a monthly check and an obligatory prayer. The contents of the refrigerator ordained by Alfan’s photos could probably feed his family for a month. Does that convict me? Sure, but I still throw away leftovers. How can I attempt to represent Jesus to the needy in my community when I’m only willing to get as close as dropping off clothes in a Good Will box? More tangible relationships could get messy and I much prefer to pick the low hanging fruit. I’ve separated the relationship from my God. He can’t be smiling.

Alfan’s voice gets ignored because it isn’t loud. But the deeper issue is that the strength and influence of his voice is irrelevant when most aren’t listening or have set boundaries for the extent of their compassion. I’ve been told I’m generous, but I doubt God sees it that way when I’m only benevolent out of my excess. Truly giving sacrificially is a loud boundary when I’m ensnared in mortgage payments and cable TV bills. Why is “weather on the 8’s” versus supporting a homeless shelter really such a struggle? But even if I can get by my American materialism, it would be easy to justify my limits exclusively within the realm of popular Christian standards. Aren’t I doing more than most? Shouldn’t I be enjoying the blessings God has given me? And even if I do push back against this mindset, the voices trumpeting prosperity theology are louder, more articulate and better funded than mine. And frankly, those voices become hard to ignore the more I tune out the quiet voices of Alfan and God. Rueben Job (in A Guide to Prayer for All Who Seek God, 2003, Upper Room Books, p. 381) says is well - “When you choose to walk with Jesus in a culture that rewards those who take for themselves before thinking about others, you may end up feeling someone has taken advantage of you.”

I realistically know it’s unlikely my family will ever receive a photograph of Alfan smiling. But the real question is will I ever hear his voice and other voices like his in my community? Will I desire to relate to others like Jesus did? I long for the day when the noise created by boundaries and expectations and the American need to upgrade becomes so dissonant that I run to turn it off and simply listen. I crave this because I believe it will make God smile.