Naked

I saw a naked man today. And no, I do not mean like on some perverted magazine centerfold or even a movie. But as the car passed by one of the main thoroughfares of the city, I saw a naked man, hunched over on a sidewalk curb. He had a blank look in his face, as though he could not quite understand how he had gotten there.

There was nothing funny about it. Nothing comical in the way he sat.

There was nothing artful. Nothing that any great master might wish to capture on marble or canvas. There was nothing erotic or sexy either. Nothing to cause anyone to call the police to report an act of public lewdness. For the man just sat there—utterly and completely without clothes. And his face, naked too, as though he had lost the ability to care or to feel shame.

And when we finally drove away, I wanted to cry. Because I was ashamed. Not because I had some misplaced sense of propriety or offended innocence, but because, I was part of a society that could allow a man to be completely without anything. Where was his family? And how had they allowed him to get out like that? Where were his neighbors? Didn’t anybody try to stop him at all? And where was I? Was I just another passerby who wished that someone else might help him as long as I wasn’t inconvenienced or delayed?

I wonder in agony when I think about how long after I left that man must have sat there before somebody had enough courage to help him—somebody who did not care if he would be late for work or somebody who spared his coat or jacket or pants to keep someone else warm. Somebody who would not put the rest of the human race to shame. Somebody who looks at another naked human being and thinks, this is a man. He is my brother and it is my duty to clothe him.

At moments like those, I think about what the great saints would have done. And I look around and hope to see one of them just around the corner. But nobody ever comes. No great angel comes down from heaven to cover him with a sparkling new coat. And then to my great dismay I realize there is only me. Just ordinary little me. No great saint here. No great voices from heaven telling me what to do and where to go. No superpowers like the Justice League.

But I would have been enough. The naked man did not need a sermon or a great miracle. He needed clothes. He just needed clothes. And that was something I could have given him. Instead, I chose to walk away.

I wish I could have done things differently that day. Most of the time, I don’t regret the things I do or do not do. But this was not one of those times. I really and truly regretted not helping that day. I wonder if I shall be seeing that man again to make up for what I failed to do. Although I am not entirely certain either that I still won’t walk away the next time I see him. Still, I hope I can be better. After all, the man did not judge me or even condemn me.

Yes, I can still hope. Perhaps a day can come when I will not think twice about giving someone what they need—a piece of bread to the hungry, water to the thirsty, clothes to the naked, cheer to the down-hearted, love to the unloved. Or perhaps, in the not too distant future, the world will change and no one will be left wanting. And on that day, perhaps I can find that one formerly naked man (who will hopefully be fully clothed by them) to apologize and to tell him how his nakedness unmasked my complacency and how he in his abject poverty still managed to give me the gift of hope.