I will call him Kevin though that is not his name. I assure you that he is quite real and that his story, following, is accurate or at least reflects truly what he has told me of his life. It is his story through his eyes.

I think I first met Kevin several months ago in the parking lot of a coffee shop my wife and I frequent. My memory is not what it once was, and it never was much. It could have been longer. I generally wear a clerical collar when out, so I am an “easy mark” — particularly in parking lots, it seems — for those soliciting donations. Frankly, that is one of the reasons I dress as I do; I want the poor to know that they can turn to the church in need. I always keep a few dollars in my shirt pocket wrapped around a “blessing card” from the church.

As Kevin told me once, the little help that people offer is not a remedy for the poor, but it can be a relief. I try to offer a bit of relief in the name of the Lord as the Lord gives me opportunity. It is too little, I know, and that weighs on me.

Kevin began frequenting the coffee shop himself, often dozing at a corner table. I have never seen him “bother” anyone or ask anyone but me for money or other help. He has always been polite and even apologetic when asking me. Over time we began to talk and I learned some of his story. I know more than I will tell here; he is only a bit younger than me, so his life has been long and complicated. In Cliff Notes version, Kevin is divorced and estranged from both his wife and his one adult daughter. He has one living sibling, but there was a rift in their relationship when their mother died — squabbling over such inheritance as there was. Kevin is now alone in the world. I do not assume that he is innocent in the breakdown of these relationships; I have no basis for judging that, nor any need to do so. The simple facts remain.

Kevin worked with his hands and his back, not for a retirement plan but just to live day-to-day. He is now physically unable to work, and he has no income. He also has no home. Each day he travels a route of a few shops or restaurants where he can sit for awhile: not too long in any one place lest he be evicted. He is generally at the coffee shop in the late afternoon, perhaps because he knows my wife and I will be there that time of day. Not infrequently I give him a ride to his next stop, a burger shop in town where he can eat cheaply, and I make sure he has enough money for his daily bread. He prefers this particular eatery because it is relatively cheap and because it is within walking distance of the woods where he sleeps on some plastic sheeting on the ground. He has neither tent nor sleeping bag. I have offered but he tells me the police will just haul it all off. I make no judgment; the police are just doing their job, though that part of their job may partake of the powers and principalities against which wage spiritual warfare. Kevin gets up each morning and walks to a nearby convenience store where he can clean up a bit and use the restroom. And so his days go.

When my wife and I went to the coffee shop today I was glad to see Kevin there. We had not been out for coffee in a few days, and I was concerned about him. He was dozing so I decided to wait a bit before checking on him. We had just been seated when I saw the shop manager approach Kevin. After a brief conversation, he stood up and started for the door. I joined him and we walked out together. For the first time, he had been asked to leave this shop. I understand the business reasons. Kevin probably does, too, but he was clearly hurt by the incident. I know that he has money for food tonight, but I don’t know where he will go tomorrow afternoon or where I will meet him again. I suppose I will seek him out at his “favorite” restaurant.

When I returned to the coffee shop, I spoke with the manager, not to castigate her in any way, but to tell her Kevin’s story and to comfort her. She was shaken by the incident, not because Kevin was rude or threatening, but because it is hard for a compassionate person to treat another person as less than a person. Poverty took a toll not just on Kevin in that moment, but on that caring young lady as well. It is damnable from top to bottom. I suspect she will sleep no better tonight than will Kevin.

Homelessness and poverty seem intractable.

I have sought help for Kevin from some in our scruffy city who are in the “poverty” business, those who work with non-profits and with the city. Kevin is one of those for whom the “cracks” seem particularly designed, and he falls right between them all. I have offered to take him to one of our local shelters, but he fears them more than sleeping outside. From my conversations with those who know, he is right to do so. I have no idea what Kevin will do as winter approaches.

Why am I telling you this story? In part, simply to humanize the poor and homeless. It is easy to generalize them as a group; it is another thing entirely when you know a name and a story. I have known some of the poor in our city: Tarzan and Jane — yes, those were the names they went by — Tumbleweed, who was proud of being the last hobo, and several others several years ago when St. Demetrios church and the good people there let me help with the soup kitchen they ran in their church in inner-city Knoxville. The homeless in Knoxville differ from the housed not in temperament but in means: there are jerks and “saints” in both groups and all of them are image bearers or God. Now I know Kevin and his story. So do you.

I tell this story also to ask you, in your mercy, to pray. Pray for Kevin. With the city and its various agencies, little seems possible. With God, all things are possible. I have though often of late of the film “Man of God” on the life of St. Nektarios of Aegina. When faced with a situation everyone bewailed as impossible he said simply, “We shall see.” And he prayed. What will become of Kevin? We shall see.

Pray for me, also, please. God has a “wicked” sense of humor. This Sunday I am scheduled to preach on Jesus’ parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus.