When God Calls Us to Action—How Do We Respond?

What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? (Jas. 2:14)

I slammed the steering wheel. Thirty minutes circling Manhattan, hunting for a parking space that wouldn’t bankrupt me. Thirty. Minutes.

My smartwatch dinged. Elevated Heart Rate. A tap, then a swipe. Watch reset. The rapid pulse didn’t.

I yanked the car door open. My family was already at the hotel six blocks away, probably asleep.

Another ding.

Ignored.

My shoes echoed off the pavement. I kept my hands in my pockets, my pace steady but not rushed. Like I belonged there.

The First Chance

Three blocks from the hotel, I saw him.

A homeless man sprawled across the sidewalk. Not tucked against a building, not curled in a doorway, he blocked the path, one arm flung to the side, the other hidden beneath him. His torn jacket bunched up to his chest.

I slowed. Stopped.

The voice came immediately, clear and unmistakable: Give him money. Food. Water. The coat off your back.

I stood there. Seconds passed.

Then I stepped around him and kept walking.

I didn’t even slow down enough to let the guilt catch up with me until I was through the hotel doors and heading toward the elevator.

God had given me my first chance.

I’d failed.

The Second Chance

The next evening, my son and I ducked into a CVS to escape the rain. Outside, two men huddled on flattened cardboard under the awning, threadbare hoodies pulled tight. The rain came down hard, steady, the kind that soaks through everything. They’d pressed themselves as far back as possible, but water still dripped onto their makeshift shelter, darkening the edges of the cardboard.

We pushed through the doors into brightness and warmth.

Inside, I was surrounded by abundance. Aisles of food, drinks, snacks, even cheap umbrellas. Everything these men needed, everything I could easily afford. My wallet was in my pocket. My credit card ready. It would take two minutes. Less.

The voice came again, louder this time: Leave them some food. Water. Money. Anything.

I walked past the granola bars. Past stacks of water bottles. Past the sandwiches near the register. I bought what I’d come for—I don’t even remember what—and my son and I stepped back outside.

The men were still there.

We walked past.

My son didn’t say anything, but children are always learning something, especially when we wish they wouldn’t.

Second chance. Second failure.

The Third Chance

After Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral the next morning, my son and I emerged from the Nike store into another downpour. We had good umbrellas, big ones, and we stayed completely dry as we headed toward 42^nd Street.

An older woman walked toward us, her denim jacket held over her head, water streaming down her face. She looked miserable, beaten down by the rain, by the cold, maybe by more than that.

I had just received the Eucharist an hour earlier. I had consumed the Body of Christ. I had knelt in the cathedral and prayed for the grace to be His hands and feet in the world, to see Him in others, to love as He loved.

Here was my answer to that prayer, walking toward me. Here was Jesus. And I had the exact thing she needed. In fact, I had two.

The call came again: Give her your umbrella.

I gripped the handle and kept walking.

She passed me. I stayed dry. She stayed soaked.

Three chances. Three failures.

Lessons from Failures

By the third day, I should have learned something. I hadn’t. How could I fail the easiest possible test of faith?

The answer isn’t complicated or profound.

Fear.

The homeless man sprawled in the middle of the sidewalk: fear of being attacked or robbed. What if he wasn’t really sleeping? What if it was a ruse? What if stopping drew attention from the wrong people? What if, what if, what if.

The men at CVS: fear of not having enough money for the rest of our trip—which was a lie, we had plenty—but also fear of the awkwardness of approaching them, fear of my son seeing his father do something uncomfortable and maybe dangerous, fear of what other shoppers might think.

The woman in the rain: fear of being inconvenienced, of getting wet on the walk back, of a small sacrifice to my comfort.

I chose safety over service. My fear spoke louder than God’s voice. Each time, I found it easier to look away, keep moving, and lie to myself about what I was really doing.

Fear by itself is human. But fear obeyed instead of Christ is a kind of idolatry.

I had spent years learning to avoid sin. But I was learning something harder: failing to do good is equally serious in God’s eyes.

In Matthew 25, Jesus doesn’t condemn people for what they did wrong. He condemns them for what they failed to do right.

Reconciliation

The week after we returned home, I went to confession.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

I started with the easy stuff. The predictable list of daily failures. Then I got to Manhattan.

“I saw a homeless man, and God urged me to help him. I walked past.”

My voice caught.

“There were two men shivering in the rain. I felt called to buy them food. I walked past.”

The priest said nothing.

“A woman needed an umbrella. I’d just received Communion. I had two umbrellas. I felt Him—”

That’s when I broke. Tears welled. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t do anything but cover my face with my hands and choke on my selfishness, on the terrifying realization that I’d looked Jesus in the face three times…and chosen myself. Every time.

“You saw Him,” the priest said simply. “That’s the grace.”

I nodded.

“And now you’re here,” he continued. “That’s also grace.”

He gave me my penance and absolution. I sat in a pew afterward, staring at the Tabernacle, hollowed out, stripped to nothing.

I wish I could tell you that confession fixed me. That I never failed again. That would be a lie.

But in that confessional, mercy found me. Not because I’d figured it out. Not because I’d learned my lesson or because I promised to amend my life. Mercy found me because I had fallen. And repented.

I failed those three people in Manhattan.

And God still welcomed me home.

Photo by LOGAN WEAVER | @LGNWVR on Unsplash