My church has mostly reinforced that these were reasonable fears. My parish is involved in a number of projects in which we collect stuff or make food for the poor, and then it is somehow delivered to them; but  when the gospel talked about giving to poor people, and eating with poor people, my pastor routinely said something near the beginning of his sermon that was clearly designed to let us off the hook: "of course, there are many ways to give to the poor, and you have to be careful of your personal safety". We would get the occasional anecdote about actually giving money, or shoes, or a meal: these were tacitly presented to us as positive experiences, but that actual, personal contact with the poor was optional, for people who wanted to go above and beyond what we were all called to do.

But it bothered me. Every time I drove past a person begging for money on a street corner -- which happens on at least one corner most days, on my regular commute -- it bothered me. I'd think "Whatever you do to the least of these, you do to me", and I'd drive past, and it bothered me. I'd think, How can I drive past Jesus standing on the street corner, and just ignore him? But I was too scared to do anything else. I'd look away, afraid even to make eye contact, for fear they'd think I was going to give them money and then get angry when I didn't.

(Once, years ago, I was driving through a park, and a woman and her little girl asked me for something when I stopped. I didn't have any money handy, but I had a pastry I got out of a vending machine, and I gave that to her for her little girl. I wasn't as scared of a mother and child as I was of men.)

So then, I think about a year ago, I was driving home one evening, along my regular route, and it so happened that the light turned red just as I got to the corner where there was an older man set up asking for money. I was right at the corner, and he was standing there on the curb, right next to my car. I could have turned my head and looked into his eyes, but I was too scared. I clutched my steering wheel and stared straight ahead at that red light and wished with all my heart that it would hurry up and change.

And that man looked at me, and he said,

You don't have to stare straight ahead and pretend you don't see me, miss. I'm just an old man, I'm not gonna hurt you. Nobody's gonna jump in at you.

Well I tell you, sisters and brothers, I was convicted by this man's words. This is not a term I normally use, it is not in my Catholic vocabulary, but it is the only word that fits. It pierced my heart and brought tears to my eyes.

I turned my head and I looked at him, and I mouthed "I'm sorry," and the light changed, and I drove on.

And I thought, I thought real hard, about what he had said, all the rest of the way home.

I thought about all the things I was afraid of. I thought about why I was afraid of them. I thought about whether I'd ever actually seen anybody swarmed by beggars after they gave money to one; whether I'd ever seen anybody act angry when somebody else gave them money; whether I'd ever seen anybody get jumped in at.

I didn't stop & give money the next time I saw someone begging on the corner. But I started to, at least, meet their eyes, shake my head, and mouth "Sorry", instead of staring straight ahead. I could at least give them that much: a human interaction, that said "I see you, you're real, you're a human being like me".

And nothing bad happened.

And I kept thinking about it, and meditating on it.

Early this spring, it happened that I came up to one of these corners where a man was begging on a day when I actually had a couple of dollars out at hand (instead of buried in my purse), and he was going to be walking past my car when I was sitting still at the stoplight.

So I met his eyes, and I rolled down my window, and he came over, and I gave him a couple of dollars, and I said "God bless you".

And he looked at me, and met my eyes, and said, "Thank you, ma'am, God bless you, thank you," as he took the money.

And then the traffic started moving again, and I rolled up my window as I drove on. And I had tears in my eyes, and I felt... graced. Blessed, released, and dwelling with the Holy Spirit.

Not suddenly relieved of all my fears, though. I decided that I'd pay careful attention, over the next few weeks: was this fellow going to recognize my car next time I drove by, and single me out? Was he going to spread the word so everybody on the corners was going to press me?

Nope. None of that happened. Nothing bad happened.

Wow.

So. I still don't make it a practice to give to every person I pass, or to at least one person every day. It's still pretty rare. I haven't, for instance, made a point of making sure I've got some small bills handy every time I drive in, though I've thought about it.

I've given a few more times, though. The most recent time was one day this summer when it was about 98 degrees out. The man I gave a couple bucks to didn't just say "Thank you" and "God bless you" this time; he wiped his brow & said, with a big grin, "I'm going to use this to get a cold bottle of water, over there -- that's going to feel really good!"

One more thing I wanted to mention: when I did finally get brave enough to give money to these men, I thought about something that one of the eucharistic ministers in my church told me, once. She said, "One of the things they emphasize in our training is that, when you put the bread in somebody's hand, to touch them -- make a little bit of skin-to-skin contact as you do it. Because that's part of it: you say to them 'The Body of Christ,' and part of what you're saying is 'You, too, are part of the body of Christ: we are part of the one body,' and that moment of contact is part of it."

So when I did give them money, I did it the same way, with a little bit of touch, for the same reason.

So this has been one small step of my journey towards God, a small step out of fear towards (and by means of) grace. Thank you for listening, and please pray for me, and for all those who have been afraid like me, and for all our poor brothers and sisters.