THE CATHOLIC Church AS ANAWIM: Session 1 of 5

Session 1: The Old Testament Anawim – God Hears the Cry of the Poor

Valued friends: This marks a new type of Lectio Divina, actually more of a contemplative reading for you to listen to. It is not short, so listen to it in bursts, as I do. My newly revised webpage will feature six menu items you can knock and ponder. This is the reading site. I have attached a way for you to listen to it. Go to that upper room of your inner self and just sit there and listen, no words, you do not control the agenda. Just wait! Just listen with the ear of your heart.

This reflection is a collaboration between Grok and me. My ideas, his elaboration, my editing, and my final approval make it mine.

“My dear friend, come and sit with me for a while. It’s a rainy afternoon, just the kind of day that invites us to slow down, isn’t it? The drops are tapping softly on the roof and the window like old friends, reminding us we don’t have to rush anywhere. Pull up that comfortable chair, maybe wrap a blanket around your shoulders if you feel a little chill. There’s a warm cup of tea or coffee beside you if you like. Today, it feels as if Jesus Himself is pulling up another chair right here beside us, speaking gently, just to you and me. No crowds, no hurry. Just His quiet voice reaching into our hearts.

You know, many of us here today carry heavy loads. Some of you are getting on in years, and your bodies don’t move quite like they used to. Others may be poor in the world’s eyes, wondering how to stretch what little they have until the next check comes. Some feel imprisoned—not just by walls and bars, but by old regrets, by mistaken ideas about what faith really means, or by the loneliness that can settle in like a fog. And yes, some of you sense that your time on this earth may not be very long now. That’s alright. Right here, in this quiet moment, you are exactly where you need to be. You are the anawim—the poor ones, the lowly ones whom God has always heard.

Let’s talk about those ancient ones first, the anawim of the Old Testament. They were not the rich or the powerful. They were the widows whose husbands had died too soon, leaving them with mouths to feed and no strong arm to protect them. They were the orphans who had no inheritance, the sick who lay by the roadside with no one to carry them to the healer, the strangers in a foreign land scraping by on whatever kindness they could find. They had no voice in the king’s court, no wealth stored up in barns, no fancy robes. But they had something far more precious: they knew they needed God. And because they knew it in their bones, they cried out to Him with honest, simple hearts.

Listen to the words that still echo down through the centuries from the Psalms: “The Lord hears the cry of the poor” (Psalm 34:6). Or again, “For the Lord takes delight in his people; he crowns the humble with victory” (Psalm 149:4). These weren’t fancy prayers written by scholars in comfortable rooms. They came from people who had nothing left but trust. Think of Hannah, that barren woman who poured out her soul before the Lord in the temple, her lips moving silently while her heart broke open (1 Samuel 1). She didn’t pretend to be strong. She simply laid her emptiness before God, and He heard her. Or remember the poor widow in the time of Elijah, who shared her last handful of flour and oil with the prophet even though she and her son were preparing to die (1 Kings 17). In her poverty, she made room for a miracle.

My friend, does any of this sound familiar? Maybe you’re sitting there thinking of your own small room, or the shelter where you stay, or the prison cell that feels so far from home. Perhaps the false ideas you once held about being a “good Catholic” have left you feeling even more alone—like you had to earn God’s love by being perfect. Let me tell you gently: those old assumptions can be like chains we put on ourselves. But the anawim of old teach us something different. They show us that God does not wait for us to become strong or successful or “worthy.” He comes to us right in our poverty.

St. Augustine, that great heart who knew his own struggles, once wrote words that feel like a warm hand on the shoulder: “You cannot attain to charity except through humility.” He understood that when we stop pretending we have it all together, that’s when love can truly enter. And Marcus Aurelius, the old Roman thinker who faced many storms himself, reminds us in his quiet way: “Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart.” Even he saw the wisdom in surrendering to what is, rather than fighting it with pride.

Now, let me share a little story with you—something that happened to a dear woman I knew years ago. Her name was Rose. She was in her late seventies, living on a very small fixed income in a tiny apartment in the city. Arthritis made every movement painful. Her children had moved far away, and visits were rare. Some days, the loneliness felt heavier than the pain in her joints. One rainy afternoon much like this one, Rose sat by her window and whispered, “Lord, if You hear the poor, then hear me. I don’t have much to offer.” She didn’t ask for money, health, or even company. She simply offered her emptiness. In the weeks that followed, a neighbor—a younger single mother—started stopping by just to chat. They began praying together with a simple rosary. Rose’s little apartment became a place of quiet peace for both of them. She told me later, with tears in her eyes, “I thought I was the poor one. But God used my poverty to bless her, too.”

That’s how it often works with the anawim. Your very weakness becomes the doorway for God’s goodness to flow through.

Let’s linger here a bit longer. Think about the prophets who spoke up for the poor. Isaiah cried out against those who crushed the needy (Isaiah 3:14-15). Amos warned the comfortable that God would not ignore the suffering of the lowly (Amos 5:11-12). These were not just social justice messages—they were love letters from God saying, “I see you. I stand with you.” In your own life, perhaps you feel crushed sometimes by bills you can’t pay, by memories of mistakes that keep replaying, or by the slow fading of strength that comes with age. Maybe you’re in prison reading this, wondering if God could possibly care about someone who messed up so badly. Or maybe you’re facing the end of life and fear what comes next. The Old Testament anawim whisper back across time: He hears. He really does.

Erich Fromm once spoke about how we build false selves to hide our vulnerability. We pretend we don’t need anyone, not even God, because needing feels like weakness. But the anawim show us the opposite. Real strength is found in honest dependence. Teilhard de Chardin, that priest-scientist who looked at the whole sweep of creation, saw God drawing everything toward Himself, especially the small and the humble. Even in what seems like loss, there is a quiet movement toward union with the divine.

Charles de Foucauld, who lived among the poorest in the desert, understood this deeply. He chose to become small so that God could be everything. His life echoes the Old Testament poor who trusted when there was no visible reason to do so.

Let me tell you about another soul. There was a man named Frank, a former factory worker who ended up homeless after illness took his job and his savings. He slept in shelters and under bridges. One winter, feeling he had nothing left, he began talking to God as he walked the cold streets. “If you’re real,” he said, “show me.” A few days later, a Church group offered him a meal and, more importantly, listened to his story without judgment. Over time, Frank found a small room and a simple job helping in the Church pantry. But the real change was inside. He said the rain and wind on those streets had stripped away his pride. In his poverty, he met the God of the anawim.

You see, friend, this is not ancient history. It lives today in you and me. Whether you are reading this in a comfortable chair or on a screen in a prison library or on a phone while resting in a shelter, the same God who heard the cries of Israel hears you. Your tears, your quiet fears at night, your wondering if you mattered—these are the cries He treasures most.

Bishop Robert Barron often reminds us that the Bible reveals a God who is not distant but close to the brokenhearted. The Catechism of the Catholic Church speaks of this too, describing how God’s mercy is especially shown to the humble and the poor in spirit. Thomas Merton, who left a busy life to live simply as a monk, wrote that in silence we discover how much we need God. The Cistercian Fathers, those gentle monks of long ago, taught that poverty of spirit is the path to true joy.

Let’s pause here and breathe together. Feel the rain outside. Let it remind you that God’s mercy falls on all of us, the just and the unjust, the strong and the weak. You don’t have to fix everything today. You don’t have to understand all the mysteries of faith. Just be the anawim—honest, open, dependent. That is enough.

I remember a woman in hospice care, nearing the end. She had little money, no family nearby, and many regrets about how she had lived. But in her final weeks, she asked for the Gospels to be read to her slowly. She kept returning to the stories of the poor widow’s mite and the woman who touched the hem of Jesus’ garment. “That’s me,” she would say with a peaceful smile. “I’ve got nothing left but trust.” Her last days were filled with a quiet light that touched everyone who visited. She taught them that dying poor in spirit is actually the richest way to go home to God.

My dear one, as we sit here in this gentle rain, I want you to know you are not forgotten. The Old Testament anawim are your spiritual ancestors. Their stories are written so that you can find hope in yours. St. Paul would later build on this when he spoke of God choosing the weak things of the world to shame the strong (1 Corinthians 1:27). But even before Christ came, the foundation was laid: God hears the cry of the poor.

Let these words settle into your heart like the soft rain soaking the earth. There is no need to rush. Tomorrow will bring what it brings. Today, simply rest in the knowledge that your life, with all its limitations and sorrows, is precious to the Father who sees.

Three Contemplative Questions to Ponder in Silence:

1. Where in my life right now do I feel most “poor” or bowed down, and what might it look like to offer that honestly to God, just as the anawim did?
2. When have I experienced—even in a small way—God hearing my cry? What did that moment feel like, and how can I remember it when things feel dark?
3. What old false assumption about myself, about faith, or about what I “should” be, am I ready to gently lay down today so I can be more open to God’s love?

Thomas Merton Prayer: My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does, in fact, please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope I will never do anything other than that desire. And I know that if I do this, you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore, I will trust you always, though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

Charles de Foucauld Prayer: Father, I abandon myself into your hands; do with me what you will. Whatever you may do, I thank you: I am ready for all, I accept all. Let only your will be done in me, and in all your creatures. I wish no more than this, O Lord. Into your hands I commend my soul; I offer it to you with all the love of my heart, for I love you, Lord, and so need to give myself, to surrender myself into your hands, without reserve, and with boundless confidence, for you are my Father.

Do What He Tells You.

Copyright © 2026 by Michael F. Conrad. The Center for Contemplative Practice. All rights reserved. These contemplative readings are offered as a gift for personal reflection, especially for the anawim—we, people with low incomes, older people, the imprisoned, people experiencing homelessness, and all who carry heavy burdens. They may be shared privately but not reproduced or distributed for commercial purposes without written permission.

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If you like this, Do What He Tells You.

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