After writing yesterday about how we do what is basically a feeding program every Sunday, I have to admit I am generally not a fan of feeding programs. There are several things that contribute to my bias.

1. Most feeding programs are designed to feed as many people as possible, as cheaply as possible. That means making dishes that no one has ever ordered in a restaurant, like chicken hot dog spaghetti, or mashed potatoes and tuna casserole.

Generally speaking, I think that if someone would not order it, I cannot in good conscience feed it to someone.

2. Most feeding programs are designed with a goal in mind that often has nothing to do with the person being fed.

The street preachers feed folks to share the ‘gospel‘ with them. The city feeds people (or tolerates the soup kitchens that do) in order to have all the homeless in one spot, so they can more easily arrest people with outstanding warrants. (No kidding).  Many (but certainly not all) churches feed folks in order to have a nice page on their website, telling about how they are loving ‘the least of these’, or to justify the 5 million dollar building campaign for new Sunday School classrooms.

Our Sunday morning breakfasts are all about the person being fed. There is absolutely no goal or agenda, other than to be able to engage with people, to share a meal with them, to recognize their human-ness and love them without preconditions.

3. Sometimes, the goal is feeding people. In other words, it becomes a process, with a clearly defined outcome, and then the priority is to do ‘it’ as quickly and efficiently as possible. This means you measure the cost, control the portions, move the line along and get the food out there.

About once a month, some church or another will come out with food while we are out there. And honestly, sometimes it is really good food. I have seen fried chicken, sub sandwhiches and more. And our friends, being human, run over to where the free food is being passed out and take it. Then they run back to where we are drinking coffee and eating fruit and hang out with us, often resuming the conversation where it left off.

Feeding programs are not the problem. But neither are they the solution to anything. At their best, they provide opprotunities for engagement and conversation with no expectation of return. At their worst, they are manipulative, abusive and cruel.

People matter. Their stories matter. Their lives matter. They have hopes, dreams, fears and birthdays. It is our goal to only do programs that not only recognize that, but celebrate it.

I sit in the courtroom, between a man who smells faintly of urine and the man who I am here to defend before the City of Raleigh. Way back in December of last year, he dared to bow his head in despair on a park bench that belongs to the people of Raleigh, thus bringing down the full wrath and judgment of the City of Oaks. He is now facing a possible fine of $100 (which he does not have) plus court costs of $120 (which he also does not have). Should he not pay these, he is faced with three days as a guest of the same City that said he cannot rest on a park bench.

We got here at 8:30, waiting in line until the courtroom was opened at 9am. We filed in, with stern admonitions being delivered about cell phone use, proper attire for facing the Judge and how to answer when they call our name. They file down the list of names, the new assistant District Attorney butchering Hispanic, French and, amazingly, some very Anglo sounding names. She calls my man’s name.

“Open, ” he replies, meaning he wants to speak to the DA.

The business of the court proceeds at a snail’s pace. Those admitting to having wronged the city of Raleigh have sentences meted out – community service, 60 days jail time, un-supervised probation. Meanwhile, my man’s name goes unheard.

We now (about 10:30) get to those who plead not guilty. Those with attorneys get swift service as winks and nods are exchanged between Judge and attorney – those with no representation get their say, but no laughter is heard, no jokes are passed. The fear is evident on their faces. Some are vindicated, others pay fines; one goes to jail for 60 days.

My man is impatient. He gave up working at the Day Labor place so he could come to court. Twice since we have arrived I have had to convince him to stay put. He wants to go outside, smoke a cigarette, try to find some work – pretty much anything than sit on the back pew, awaiting his day in court in an overheated room on the fifth floor of a downtown court house. He is concerned that it is now 11:15, they have not called his name and the Soup Kitchen closes at Noon and he has not eaten today.

I pull the bailiff aside and ask him if he could check on my man’s case. He gets the Assistant DA, who asks me what I want. I explain the situation, he tells me to sit down while he goes to check on it.

It is now 11:30. I am told yet again by my man what time the Soup Kitchen closes.

At 11:40, they call my man’s name and we go up together. I am nervous, knowing that my words will determine if he goes free or if he spends three days in jail. He shuffles, hat in hand. The DA tells us the case is dismissed and he is free to go – apparently the officer who wrote the ticket did not show.

We run down the stairs, burst out the door and sprint two blocks, hoping to make the soup kitchen before it closes. We are the last ones in before they shut the door at 11:55.