Professional Panhandlers

A few weeks ago I wrote about an organization taking advantage of society's most vulnerable by using the name of Jesus.


I was furious.


I'd be upset over mistreatment of individuals and misappropriation of funds in ANY organization, but when the organization claims to be a Christian one, I get downright angry. (Yes, I do have to repent.)


This week, though, I learned something else about myself.


I get just as angry at people on the streets using the name of Jesus to scam people.


Many will say "God bless you" when you help them, feed them, or pray with them. Some mean it and some are just saying what they think you want to hear.


This doesn't bother me.


Nor does it bother me when someone wants to come to church on Sunday and then stay drunk Monday-Saturday.


Well, that does bother me a little...


But...


None of that draws ire like what happened a few days ago.


We were eating lunch in town and passed by two girls on the way out. They were sitting in a booth reading a Bible. We nodded and smiled, then headed to our van. The one with the ministry signs.


As soon as we reached it, the younger girl caught up with us.


"We were wondering whose vehicle this was," she began.


By this point in my ministry, I'm cautious. I listen but know that I'm probably not getting the truth.


Yet with her, I found myself believing every word.


She and her sister had come down from Connecticut to bury their mother. They had one night left in the La Quinta Inn nearby but would have to move to the cheaper Days Inn the next day. They had job interviews the next day to make some money then they would decide if they were going to stay here or go back up north.


Their mom had been an elder; they been raised in church. They loved the Lord. He had provided for them every step of the way on this tough journey. Like meeting us at the exact right time that they needed help.


They needed $30 to have enough money for their hotel room the next night. My husband gave it to them. We don't often give money and never more than $5 but they seemed to be on the level.


It was beginning to rain so we offered to give them a ride back to their hotel. On the way, they asked us to pick them up for church on Sunday. They wanted to meet fellow Christians in the area.


We made arrangements to give them a ride to their new hotel the following morning and I told them I would look into some resources to help them while they were looking for work.


The next day we showed up in the hotel lobby as they moved a truckload's worth of belongings.


Having previously housed additional suitcases that surpassed Greyhound's limit when putting families on the bus, I immediately knew they had not just arrived. So I asked.


"How long have y'all been here?" I knew they had previously said they just came down last week.


"We got to Bi-lock-see about a month ago but just got here." This was the second time I heard a homeless person mispronounce Biloxi and I started wondering if it was a calculated effort to seem foreign to the area.


Once doubt creeps in, I have trouble keeping my "detective training" from kicking in. Dad taught me all the tools of his trade and, coupled with my propensity to play dumb blonde, they'd served me well over the years.


However, nowhere in the gospel does Christ command us to act dumb to investigate sinners undercover so it becomes a war within me.


He does tell us to be wise as serpents. And harmless as doves. I do better with that first part.


He also tells us not to cast our pearls before swine.


So it justifies a LITTLE digging on my part.


As my husband lugged box after box to the second story motel room, I casually made conversation. I got their last names in case we could issue a check. I really wanted to believe these girls, but I was having serious doubts.


The older sister began talking about the Bible and biblical feasts and prophecies. The more she talked, the more unsettled I got.


When we left, my husband agreed that things weren't adding up and he had the same bad feeling in his spirit.


I went to one of my new favorite spots online: Mugshots.com.


I put in the now-known first and last names.


15 hits.


These girls were professional panhandlers.


They'd been arrested in Florida, Georgia, Arkansas, and Texas.


They've apparently never lived in Connecticut.


Nor did they recently come to Mississippi to bury their mother.


Because they were in Bi-lock-see doing time two months ago. They still have charges pending there.


They called all day long and left voicemails. They'd gotten jobs at McDonald's; they started the next day. (Not true. Even if hired, there was an extensive background check and orientation process.) They were just wanting enough money for a hotel room for a few nights.


I didn't call back right away because I wasn't sure what I was going to say.


Did I tell them I knew they were liars?
That we couldn't help because they had too many arrests?
Or because they had pending charges?
Did I tell them we knew they didn't have a job because we'd talked to the manager?


I needed to pray it through.


I was mad. Mad at myself for not catching on, mad at them for lying.


What was so unusual? People lie to us all the time. Why was it bothering me so much?


Yes, we gave them money and we gave them our time but we've done that for people we knew were messing up.


What was it?


Was it that they were women?


It finally hit me.


It was because they were using Jesus in their scam.


I was livid.


If I've said this once, I've said it a thousand times out on the streets.


Tell me you're on drugs. Tell me you've got anger issues. Tell me you'd rather drink in a tent than be sober in a home.


Tell me anything you want, just don't lie to me.


And don't use the name of Jesus to manipulate me.


These girls had done both.


When we stopped in town for lunch on the way home, we had a full view of the truck stop next door. Those girls were steadily making the rounds. They had a system.


Approach the men and women in professional clothing.


Then they split up. The older one hit up the truckers in the back while the younger, more congenial, sister approached those getting in their cars at a nearby Waffle House.


By the time we left, they'd met back up.


Noticing our van, they headed toward it. As we started to drive off, they stopped and turned away.


My husband was headed in the opposite direction. "No, go up near them," I told him. All at once I knew what to do.


As we approached, I rolled my window down.


"Hey," I greeted them. My smile was genuine.


"Hey," they replied with matching smiles. Probably not sincere.


"Congrats on the jobs," I told them.


I wasn't being sarcastic; I responded to the information they'd given me. Maybe they will get jobs.


"We didn't hear from you," the younger one pouted. I briefly wondered if it was a rehearsed hurt or a genuine one.


"I'm sorry." I looked them both in the eye. "We don't have any funds until January so there's nothing I can do." This was true. I'd just learned the day before that September 30th was the cut-off date for all 2015 funds.


They knew. The look in their eyes exposed them.


But I wouldn't call them out. And I was sorry. Not that I couldn't help their scam but that I couldn't truly help them.


They need to be set free as well.


Maybe I'm learning that harmless as a dove thing after all.