I press my face against the window, trying to absorb every detail as Antonio steers the sparkling new Toyota van into Zona 3, where the largest garbage dump in Guatemala City is located. The surrounding neighborhoods have almost become a city of their own; you can feel the change in atmosphere and see it all around as you enter. The buildings here are different. The paint is chipping, and although the sun still shines the same, the storefronts don’t reflect it the same. The stone walls are covered in black and red graffiti, but it’s not the gang signs you find on the streets of Los Angeles, it’s more: Revolucíon. Paz. Justíca. Vive el Ché. This is the cry of the poor man. Can you hear him?

At this time of morning, the streets are pretty quiet. There aren’t even many homeless people to be seen. We drive past the dump, and although the wall is high enough that I can’t see inside, my stomach drops because I know what is happening on the other side. Or do I really know?

Every day, hundreds of families wake up in the dump. The mothers get their children ready for school- but wait, these children can’t go to school, because education is free in Guatemala, but only if you can afford the uniform. So each morning, these families continue the work of digging through the rubbish, looking for bottles to recycle, or maybe a “new” t-shirt. They carry bags on their backs to fill with whatever goods they can sell or reuse. There is no such thing as fresh water, no such thing as fresh air. The children are born and raised believing that they belong in the dump. This is poverty.

I’ve been in the slums before, and held the naked baby. I’ve shooed the flies away from the face of the dying child that lived under the bridge, and sat with the crippled beggar on the street. In Zona 3, I didn’t see these things, but the graffiti said it all. If I could just walk past that gate, into the dump, I know I would find similar stories being lived out between the garbage trucks and mountains of trash.

It’s interesting, I never saw tags reading, “I am hungry,” or, “Give me money for drugs.” No, this poverty is not self inflicted, nor is their cry a selfish whine. They do not realize it, but in reality, they are crying out for God’s Kingdom to come. They are crying out for a revolution of love, for justice, peace, and true community. They may not know Him yet, but they recognize their own brokenness; they know they are in need. God’s heart breaks for these; He weeps over them.

This is the writing on the wall, and God is calling us as the Church to respond. The poor see that they are utterly lost. They don’t know the solution, but we have the hope they are crying out for. And if we don’t have hope- if our hearts are filled with compassion, but we don’t believe the promises of God- what good are we? Compassion without hope will be our demise, but with hope, with the light of Christ, we are unstoppable. All of a sudden it becomes so simple, because we don’t have to work it up. Hope realizes that just like the poor, God already desires to have His Kingdom come. They don’t know it yet, but He does, and hope understands that God is waiting for us to partner with Him to bring about the peace, justice, love, and community that injustice has destroyed and replaced with poverty.

The poor man’s circumstances can be changed. His problems are not too big. Do you hear him crying? How will you respond?