“If you’re not getting paid for this, why do you do it?” the little boy asked me, with a note of genuine curiosity in his voice.
He was no more than 9 years old, and he had come to Emmaus Soup Kitchen with an older cousin. Both of them had ridden up on bikes with at least one deflated tire; both of them were wide-eyed and skinny. They said they hadn’t eaten that day, and it was already after 5 p.m.
I had been bringing them plate after plate of hot dogs and baked beans for about 15 minutes, flitting back and forth between them and the other guests eating in the Family Room. But his question, asked totally innocently, made me stop in my tracks. After a long, silent few seconds, I just smiled, shrugged broadly, and offered him another cup of milk. Five minutes later they were back out the door, pedaling away on a road that was shimmering in the July heat.
Why do I volunteer at Emmaus? What is it about those few hours each week serving a hot meal that feels far more valuable than money? His question lingered long after he left the soup kitchen, and long after I went home. I thought of answers that I might have given if I’d been asked by someone else, how I might have said something like: “It’s really rewarding to connect with people who are so rarely welcomed or treated with respect,” or, “I feel like it’s one very literal, concrete way to practice my Christian faith and follow Jesus, who fed the multitudes.” But when I imagined saying something along those lines to the little boy, it seemed like there was something awfully condescending and hollow about both of those possible responses. I couldn’t imagine telling him that I was there, bringing him his first meal of the day, because helping made me feel good, or because I thought it brought me closer to God. Besides, neither of those responses really got at the heart of the issue. Both of them were about what my time at the soup kitchen does for me. And that isn’t the point.