His name was Charlie Smitty, and he had lived in the shack for as long as anyone could remember. The only thing Charlie Smitty ever sold was sinkers, made of lead and used to hold a fishing line down into the river even when the current threatened to pull it away.

That was the only way young boys could catch any of the carp in the river that flowed swiftly south from the dam. The big bulky sinkers would land on a rock and hold while the line floated with the current. Then the fish would spy the corn-meal treat, make a hard strike and, presto, the fight was on.

I had two friends who enjoyed going out to Charlie Smitty's place. It sat just about a block off the road from the town dump. Charlie collected stuff such as all kinds of lead pipes that could be melted down and made into sinkers. Junk was piled at least 10 feet high on all sides of the shack. People were surprised the entire mess never caught fire and burned to the ground.

The first time I went into Charlie's shack, I was surprised by the sight. He had a table - old boards resting on four orange crates. He had a bed - an old frame and springs covered by blankets and quilts. On the table Charlie had one plate, chipped on the edge.

One day, a piece of bacon rested on the plate until a scrawny cat jumped up, grabbed the meat and ran away.

You may think I'm exaggerating, but that first look at Charlie's living quarters shocked me to the core. I knew people who were poor. In fact, most of the people in my neighborhood were poor by today's standards, but Charlie was poor by another measure.

I prayed for him every Sunday and sometimes during the week. When I would put pennies in the offering plate at Sunday school, I prayed they would buy something for Charlie.

I had seen poor farmers in South Dakota, living in dusty farm houses surrounded by broken-down machinery. My grandfather took us on runs to collect insurance premiums from his monthly customers. Most of them would come out on the porch and explain to my grandfather why they couldn't pay the premium that month. And the children would stand peering into grandpa's car, a 1940 Hudson Hornet that must have looked like a limousine.

But that wasn't close to the poverty that afflicted Charlie Smitty. The interesting thing for a child to observe was that no one felt sorry for Charlie. I have no idea what he had done to the town, but there was not an ounce of sympathy for the guy. And if I mentioned his plight to my parents they would pat me graciously and go about their business.

One day, Charlie got sick, went into the hospital and never came out. There was a funeral for him, but the parlor was empty. The preacher read scripture and the body was hauled to a pauper's grave. There was no rescue even at the end.

The reality of poverty has changed since then because in this time very few people can claim they are as poor economically as Charlie. Our social sensitivities simply will not allow that kind of poverty to exist. Most everyone can find a home, and most homes have a television set. People have clothes to wear, cars to drive, food on the table and beds for sleeping.

But the poor of this day are very much like Charlie Smitty because their poverty extends way beyond material things. The truth is, the poor of today don't know how to vote. They are not sure about how to get married. They don't have a clue about getting a child baptized. They can't negotiate a loan with a good rate of interest.

They don't know people at city hall, at church, at school or in any of the important institutions that rule our world. In fact, when they get in trouble they have no clue about finding a way out.

In other words, they have a spiritual poverty that weighs them down through every minute of life. They have very little information about how they can get lifted to a better existence - to the good life. More and more, the church's mission gets narrowed, to find the truly poverty stricken and give them information.

Clark D. Morphew