Without a doubt, the ragged man sitting next to me was homeless and alone. It’s hard to guess how long it might have been since he enjoyed a decent night’s rest, or a meal that consisted of something other than table scraps or prepackaged snacks, but it might have been days, perhaps weeks. I tried not to stare at him; I even hesitated to make eye contact. Would he ask me for money? Would his words make sense if he spoke to me? I pretended to be interested in a couple of students tossing a Frisbee across the way, but secretly my attention was on this man sitting a few feet to my left. He sat so quietly, looking so fragile. I wondered what had brought him to this place in life.

If there had been any other benches in this small city park, any other possible place to rest my tired legs and wait for my ride, I would have moved. But my options were limited, and after having shopped all day, my desire for rest was apparently stronger than my desire to move away from this uncomfortable situation.

Without the slightest warning, he turned his shoulders in my direction, leaned forward, and held out his hand. My first thought was to casually get up and walk away, in spite of my weary legs, until I noticed something in his hand. It caused me to pause for a moment, and I found myself turning my head to look directly into his eyes. Then I smiled, with quivering lips, not knowing what would happen next.

“Do you know this man?” he asked, not mumbling as I anticipated he would, but with such unexpected clarity. A little taken back by his question, it took me a second to look down at what he held tightly in his grip. Slowly unclenching his fingers, he seemed to be handing the piece of paper to me, so I carefully removed it from his soiled hand. The paper was folded into fourths, torn and stained, but I cautiously took what seemed to be a prized possession. He looked at me with eagerness, anticipating my response. I sensed that my lips were still quivering.

I gently unfolded the paper, with rising curiosity, still wondering if the wisest choice would be to get up and walk away. Something kept me from leaving, and as I glanced up at the man next to me, I knew that I needed to remain. He seemed to be energized by my willingness to stay.

As I examined the paper, I saw a picture of a man, and some writing that was worn beyond recognition. Perhaps at one time these faded words explained who this man was, but, sadly, without this additional information, I could not identify the stranger on the paper. Who was this man? Why did this homeless man ask me if I knew him? Was he looking for him? Was he a relative who might be able to help him? My lips had stopped quivering, but my mind was whirling.

“I’m sorry,” I spoke for the first time, “but I don’t recognize this man. Are you looking for him? Is there a reason you need to find him?”

The unkempt man seemed unhappy with my brief answer, and I looked again at the picture in my hands. “This is a close personal friend of mine,” he said, as I continued to examine the image. “Such a loyal friend. He is known by many people in this city, and I thought you might know him too. Words can hardly express how much I love him.”

I was astounded by these unexpected words. I looked again into this homeless man’s eyes, and in spite of his situation, I saw only warmth and kindness. Wasn’t he hungry? Wasn’t he weary? I was hoping that my ride would be a bit delayed so I could find the answers to these questions.

I said to the nameless man, “Your friend sounds like a very special person. Even though I don’t know him, I would love the opportunity to meet him someday. Has it been a while since you’ve seen him?”

“Oh no,” he replied. “I see him every day.” He donned a big smile.

The look on my face must have telegraphed growing confusion. Raising my voice just a bit, I inquired, “Aren’t you looking for him?”

“You know, I was looking for him a few years ago, and I found him. I found him right when I needed him the most, and he’s been here for me ever since. Through my friendship with him, I know that everything will be all right. When you look at me, you may simply see a tired old man with few worldly possessions. But when this man,” he pointed to the picture in my hands, “when my friend looks at me he sees a person of great value. It’s something that is hard to describe. I was just hoping that you might know him too.”

I was feeling a little strange about the direction of this conversation, and hardly knew what to say next. I was hopelessly wishing that the words on this worn piece of paper would reappear, so I could have some sort of clue as to who this man was. I looked again at the picture, desperately wanting to know something about him, even his name.

“There are so many people in this city,” I attempted to explain, “and I doubt that I would ever run into him. But if I see him, I’ll be sure to tell him that you spoke so highly of him. What is his name?”

“His name is Jesus.”

My lips began to quiver once again. My desire to get up and leave increased ten fold, for I wanted nothing to do with Jesus. I had heard about him for many years. Extravagant preachers on television and saintly Sunday school teachers with their flannel graph stories - they all spoke about him. I did not want to be friends with Jesus.

“Did I say something that troubles you?” he gently inquired.

I felt both angry and confused. “How is it that you can talk about Jesus as a close friend of yours, while you sit here, day after day, wondering if you will have a meal tonight before you curl up under the bench to sleep for the night?”

He smiled and paused. “It may surprise you to hear this, but what you see on the outside is quite insignificant. What is important for you to know is that Jesus takes care of my every need; he provides everything that I need, and, most importantly, he alone has the power to give me a meaningful and fulfilling life. Sometimes what we see on the outside can be very deceiving. I would venture to say that there are a lot of people in this city who look very happy and successful on the outside, but in reality are lonely and afraid.”

He paused again and looked at the picture of Jesus in my hands. “Do you have a life that has meaning and purpose?”

I was taken back by his boldness. I had spent the day shopping, looking for things that would bring me pleasure, having the resources to purchase just about anything I desired. And here was this man, this homeless man, trying to tell me about a meaningful life. He was trying to tell me that Jesus would bring purpose to my life.

“Sir,” I said, trying to be polite, “I suppose that Jesus means so much to you because you really need him. You essentially have nothing in this world to call your own, and you probably feel much better about yourself because you believe in Jesus. That’s great for you, but I’m really quite satisfied with my life just as it is.” I wasn’t being totally honest, but I tried to present my case with confidence. I wondered again to myself, “Who is this beggar to tell me that I need Jesus?” I felt like we were playing a game of tennis, and the ball was now in his court.

“My friend,” he smiled, “let me tell you something. I do believe in Jesus, and I experience true joy every day because I know him and I love him. And I know that he loves me. This paper, the one you now hold in your hand, is a constant reminder of my relationship with him. You cannot see what the words once expressed, but they told of God’s plan to save this dying world through Jesus. Because of his life on this earth, his death on the cross, and his victory over death, I have hope. And you too can have that hope, if you would only believe.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t need Jesus. I appreciate what you’ve shared with me, but it’s time for me to go.” I was grateful to see my bus coming around the corner. As I picked up my packages and stood up to signal the bus, the homeless man looked at me with piercing eyes.

“God sees your emptiness, and he sent Jesus to this earth, over 2000 years ago, to replace that barrenness with fullness and joy. We are hopelessly bound to our own selfishness. God will continue to give you opportunities to accept his son, and free you from such bondage. Keep your eyes and your heart open.”

The bus finally pulled into the designated area, and I handed the paper back to the man on the bench. I thanked him and smiled as I boarded the bus. Making my way to the first available seat, I could not stop thinking about what had just transpired. I understood the emptiness of which he spoke, and I wanted to believe that somehow I could find purpose in my life. I thought about what the homeless man said, and I glanced back at the bench to see him one last time. Curiously, he was nowhere to be seen.

I had heard about Jesus many times in my life, but had never considered him to be the source of true joy. I had a Bible at home, I remembered, and perhaps when I got home, I would look through the pages to see if I could find Jesus there. What the old man said really did make sense, although my pride kept me from admitting that to him. In ways, I regretted that I did not talk with him about God, as I’m sure he would have been able to answer the questions I had stored up over the years. I recalled that he said that God would give me another chance to believe, and I felt a sense of warmth come over me. Maybe it would be today. Or perhaps I missed my only opportunity.

I stared out the window, thinking about my life. The bus routinely pulled over at the next stop, and a young teenage girl climbed into the bus. Must be a school nearby, I figured. She sat down next to me, backpack hanging on her shoulder, a walkman around her neck. The bus finally pulled away from the curb. The girl smiled at me, and I smiled back, as she pulled something out of her front pocket.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” she asked.

“Not at all,” I said, focusing my attention on this girl to my left.

She handed me a piece of paper, folded into fourths, and calmly asked, “Do you know this man?”