Broken

Two weeks ago was my first time working with Grand Central Food Program. I went on a van route throughout Bronx and at designated stops, got out and passed out food to the people waiting. Young, old, white, black, latino, proud and humble all came.

We underestimate the extent of the real

-Steve Paxton, initiator of the contact improvisation dance movement

Handing out oranges, chicken noodle soup in a styrofoam container, mini-cartons of milk, and a random bagel or danish was my only way of being close to these people. It was through an act of charity. As I look back and try to remember those faces and eyes, I feel as though I am trying to remember Jesus himself. The hungry, un-sheltered, young and old, language impaired, beautiful people. Who else was Jesus? Who else did Jesus spend time with?

Why, I must ask, did I only now at the age of 20 come into close contact with these people? And why for such a fleeting moment. Where in the world can I find Jesus again?

I remember Jesus said, this is my body broken for you, and this is my blood. Then, he broke the bread and probably passed it around telling people to eat it. Jesus wanted us to eat and drink and remember him, a broken bloody body who loves us. I hope I never forget Jesus as I pass out food to my fellow broken and weary brothers and sisters. From my broken hands to their broken mouths, in remembrance of a broken Jesus. Deep to deep, glory to glory. Hallelujah.