At the clothing bank - Matthew 25:31-46 - Column

Christian Century, Nov 3, 1993 by Anthony B. Robinson

THE CLOTHING bank was open from 10:00 to 4:00 every Wednesday in the church basement. The "bank" was actually a large closet with a section for hanging clothes and drawers underneath for boots and shoes. Piled high atop the closet were cardboard boxes stuffed with folded clothes.

On Wednesdays at about 9:30 Gertrude and Vernet came up the church walk. Even though Vernet, who had spent most of his life as a logger, was in his late 70s, he was still tall and lean. These days he tilted forward a little as he walked or stood, like a tree leaning with the weight of the years. His wife, Gertrude, by contrast, seemed almost as wide as she was tall. She was not, however, fat. She was simply a farm wife who had settled.

In the basement Vernet would dimb a chair and pull down the cardboard boxes. Gertrude would carefully put the contents out on the tables. It always surprised me to see how many tables were filled. Boots and shoes would be pulled out and the closet doors opened to reveal heavy wool suits and long raincoats. As the day went on, anywhere between two and ten people would follow Gertrude and Vernet down the stairs into the basement. Often late in the day, when it was starting to grow dark on winter days, a mother followed by two or three children would descend the stairs. Gertrude would play with the children in a grandmotherly way while Vernet helped the mother find what she was looking for.

Gertrude and Vernet were not always in perfect spirits about the labor they had chosen. People would donate huge bags of unsorted, even unwashed clothes, and all manner of odds and ends for which Veruet could never find space. This irritated him. It also irritated him that some people made such a mess of the clothes as they looked through them.

Some of us wondered, more often in our thoughts than out loud, if this faithfully tended clothing bank did any real good. After all, the Northwest had major economic problems. Could a few boxes of clothing make a difference? It seemed that more large-scale efforts, such as government intervention, were needed. But on Wednesdays Gertrude and Vernet came, and so did those who needed what was stuffed in the big closet.

Sometimes in the summer I would hear from someone who had stopped at Gertrude and Vernet's house to buy vegetables from their large garden. People with children were likely to come away with an extra bag of this or a basket of that free of charge--and prices were already ridiculously low. Along about November Vernet, without fanfare, would give whatever money he had made from his garden to the church.

I don't know if the clothing bank was effective. But, then, in the parable of the last judgment Jesus did not say anything about effectiveness. He only asked, "Did you feed the hungry?" "Did you clothe the naked?" "When I was in prison did you come to me?" It is good to know that, whether or not you can change the world, you can still be faithful. When you're not wielding a lot of power, it's easy to say, "What difference does what I do make?" But maybe those who seem to be in charge are not as powerful as they appear. Jesus only asks us to be faithful. There are Gertrudes and Vernets in every congregation, and whether or not they make a difference to the world, I know they have made a difference to me.

When the judgment comes what will King Jesus say to each of us? Will he ask if we have been "born again"? Will he ask what awards we have received or what influential people we have known? It seems not. He will ask, "Did you feed the hungry?" "Did you clothe the naked?" "Did you visit me in prison?" What is striking about this parable is that the blessed of the Lord seem unaware of what they have done. They are surprised to hear Jesus say, "As you cared for the least of my sisters and brothers you cared for me." When Jesus says, "Come, 0 blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you," they ask, "Are you talking to us?"

If you talked to Gertrude and Vernet, it seemed to them they had done little or nothing. Theirs was no fake humility. Their service to others was so much a part of their lives that they really did not give it much thought. When I would thank him, Veruet was always embarrassed. "It was nothing," he would say with a wave of his arthritic hand.

Perhaps thats the way it is with the saints. Goodness is not planned. It is not a heroic decision or clever calculation. It is an expression of who we are. Had I asked Vernet why he did what he did I doubt that he could have told me. For him it was not carefully thought out. It was simply an expression of his character. Who he was grew out of his faith.

The dying words of the German poet Goethe were "Light, light, let there be more light." When the 20th-century Spanish philosopher Miguel de Unamuno reflected on these words, he said, "It is not more light we need, but more warmth. Warmth, warmth, more warmth! We die of cold, not of darkness. It is not the night that kills, but the frost."

On Wednesday evenings, Vernet pulled his coat on and went down the walk. The year was heading toward its end and night was coming on, even though it was only a quarter past four. Into their old station wagon he and Gertrude climbed and beaded back down the road. But even as darkness fell and a cold wind blew down off the hills, there seemed to be a light around that station wagon, and the world was a warmer place.