What to Do When Doing Good Feels Good?

"The one who despises his neighbor sins, but whoever shows kindness to the poor will be happy." Proverbs 14:21

It feels good to help people. We chide ourselves for embracing that fact because we think our own happiness isn't a fitting result of an altruistic act.

What if it's supposed to feel good?

Maybe God told us to care for the needy because it's right but also allows us to feel its joy so we want to keep doing so? Maybe moral "rightness' and feeling right are more inextricably tied than I originally imagined?

God is good. And socio-economic reconciliation is good, too. I think somebody once called it Christian Hedonism.

Care About Your City? Write to Your Congressmen.

I'm incredibly green and naive when it comes to all things political, but in light of this week's Dr. Douglas Karpen allegations, I'm trying to humbly take action nonetheless. So I just emailed my local congressional representative.

If you care about the welfare of your city and the vulnerable within its walls, maybe you want to take a stab at writing your rep, too? It's pretty simple.

I fired off a quick message asking my district rep to support H.R. 1797, the bill protecting fetuses against late-term abortions, post-20-weeks—the point in the gestation period when fetuses are known to feel pain. The bill will go before the House Judiciary Subcommittee on the Constitution and Civil Justice THIS THURSDAY. I don't know much about the proposed legislation, but I wanted to let Texas District 9 Rep. Al Green know I care about his attention to the marginalized and tell him I support his service to our city.

Maybe it won't do any good, but I hear "people who think members of Congress pay little or no attention to constituent mail, are plain wrong. Concise, well thought out personal letters are one of the most effective ways Americans have of influencing law-makers."

Want to try it?

1. Find your local representative with this house.gov ZIP search.
2. Read these tips on writing an effective three-paragraph message.
3. Submit your letter via your representative's online contact form, making sure to include your mailing and email addresses.

Not sure how well my attempt successfully fits the format above, but I've copied it below as an example. Do you have mad congressional-communication skills? I'd love some tips! Send 'em my way, because I hope today's episode is just the first in a long line of pesky—yet, positive—political pings.

Dear Honorable Representative Green:

I am a new-to-Texas transplant and work for an international, Houston-based non-profit. I hope to learn more about advocating for the vulnerable in the developing world—and our own city. That's why I was shocked to learn of this week's allegations against one of Harris County's own, Dr. Douglas Karpen. I'm grieved at the possibility that these allegations could be true of abortion clinics anywhere, but especially in the city I now call home.

This Thursday, May 23, Arizona Rep. Trent Franks' "Unborn Child Protection Act" will go before the  House Judiciary Subcommittee on the Constitution and Civil Justice as H.R. 1797. If passed, it would help protect post-20-week fetuses from late-term abortions. This is the gestation period at which fetuses are known to feel pain. I am encouraged by this bill's existence and think, if instated, it will directly affect unborn children in Harris County.

Please consider co-sponsoring H.R. 1797 with your signature. And thank you for your continued service to our great city.

Meredith Maines

Why the "Unborn Child Protection Act" Matters to Houston

I confess, I've been much too content blasting JT's newest on repeat to flip over to NPR—or any other news outlet—in my car as of late. So I was shocked today to learn via Twitter—millennial stereotype: 1; Meredith: 0—of Wednesday's horrific allegations against Houstonian Dr. Douglas Karpen's clinics.

Allegations of bloody, horrible, late-term abortions that neither respect the post-20-week fetuses who already have the capacity to feel pain, nor the women prematurely and dangerously induced—though probably willingly—through an hour-long "extraction process."

Allegations that have yet to be confirmed. And I acknowledge I'm coming into this late in the game, but I offer my admittedly naive syllogism:

1. Houston is an international hub for human trafficking.
2. Human trafficking could increase the chances of unwanted pregnancies.
3. Increased instances of unwanted pregnancies could directly affect abortion rate.

I don't want to take the liberty to suggest that late-term abortions like those alleged this week are always/ever the result of human trafficking. I don't pretend to know what happens to women in that situation. But I would like to humbly surmise that human trafficking and abortion are inherently symbiotic.

If we believe that human trafficking afflicts our city, well, Houston, I say we should care both about the lives of the vicitimized women and the post-20-week children they possibly carry. Post-20-week fetuses are known to feel pain, and if these allegations are true, I cannot begin to imagine the excruciating pain these at Karpen's mercy could have experienced. The reality is scary and painful, but I need to see my city for what it is. The good and the terribly gritty. I don't want to be burried alive in a shrine to our shiny strip malls. I want to be a living, breathing, active, contributing member of this mass of humanity we call Houston.

So first, I propose we all pray. Pray for Douglas Karpen, if these reports are true, for his heart to change toward the value of human life. Pray for his employees who leveled these allegations. Whether true or not, that took some guts. Pray for the Harris County District Attorney's Office. Not only do they fight crazy battles daily, but this week DA Mike Andersen revealed to his staff his current battle with cancer. Pray for his health and his leadership in the midst of the struggle. Pray for the Texas Medical Board that apparently ignored reports of this clinic in the past. Pray for the Texas Department of Health and Safety for discernment as they investigate.

Second, we should be investigating, too. Not that we can aid in Karpen's trial, but we can get informed about current and proposed legislation that would work in favor of the vulnerable. On next week's docket, AZ Rep. Trent Franks' expanded "D.C. Pain-Capable Abortion Act" will come before the House Judiciary Subcommittee on the Constitution and Civil Justice as the "Unborn Child Protection Act." From what I can tell, if passed, it would nationally criminalize post-20-week abortions.

I haven't read the proposed bill myself, so I hesitate to jump on a congressional-support bandwagon, but I encourage you to research it along with me before Thursday's hearing. And if you think the legislation ultimately supports God's heart for abundant life, reconciliation and justice, then I encourage you to quickly contact your Congressmen and ask them to co-sponsor the bill with a signature.

You can easily find your representative on house.gov's ZIP search. Once I did, the site directed me to a simple web-based contact form that will hopefully alert my rep of my support for his leadership on this legislation. Five minutes, tops.

Let this be my first step toward a deeper love of the city I call home.

If you have suggestions of other ways to edify our local, elected officials and promote social justice, I'd love to chat! Please, please let me know.

Thanks to my twitter friend Matt Moore for being social-justice conscious and tweeting the alert I noticed in my feed.

A Homeless Man's Robe of Righteousness

If you added up the minutes I sit waiting to turn left at the corner of Westheimer and Dairy Ashford, it would amount to almost nothing. It would be a relative fraction of the months this one man must sit on that same corner's concrete median in his wheelchair—day after day. I assume he's homeless, though he never has a sign. He never attempts to make an appeal. But I always attempt not to make eye contact, his face uncomfortably close to mine, until today.

My route takes me past him almost daily, but only on Sundays do I see him donning a reflective orange vest, "Houston Chronicle" emblazoned across the shoulders. It's his robe of legitimacy. For one day only, that vest and a nearby stack of newsprint give him a reason to stake his claim on that corner. The other six days, he's just borrowing uncertain space.

This morning I watched a girl hop out a few cars behind me to trade small bills for his wares. He held the cash in his teeth while he fumbled to untuck a wallet from layers of coats—in Houston, in May. When the turn signal allowed her to drive past, he waved a clumsy, gloved hand in her direction. It made me smile. It made me sad I hadn't bought a paper. It made me wonder if she really wanted to read the news or if she had merely hoped to brighten his day. From the looks of things, I doubt he can boast many customers.

But in his garish orange, I saw something of myself. He made me think of Jesus' righteousness. That vest—it doesn't belong to him. It isn't his own name he bears. When he wears it one day a week, he's bestowed with validity, credibility. It gives him purpose. With it, he can hold his head a little higher—without it, he's forgotten.

Tonight, I again landed the second spot in the turn lane, my wheels directly aligned with his. I waved, windows rolled up, making an effort to acknowledge, remembering the girl a few hours earlier. But I quickly averted my eyes. I waited. I took a deep breath. I looked his way again and rolled down the window, just seconds before the green arrow.

"Hi, what's your name?"
"Julius Quinn."
"Hi, Julius. I'm Meredith. I don't need a newspaper, but I just wanted to say hello."
"I need a lot of help."
"May I pray for you?"
"Yes, see I owe a lot of money to the Chronicle—think you could help me out?"
The ill-timed light changes.
"Julius, I'm sorry, I don't have any cash right now. I have to go."

I felt trite. Why did I hand him an empty offer of prayer? What good did that do from his perspective without something tangible attached? I don't know what I'll do next time I see Julius, but at least now I know his name, and he's already taught me something.

I'm an awful lot like Julius Quinn. I've been given a great name, a kindness I can never repay. The new identity I've been given in Jesus is a robe of righteousness I should wear every waking moment, though I often choose to go without.

Without Jesus—and his righteousness—I'm homeless. May I continue to find my home in him alone.