Well. I can say I really went to church today. I'm still visiting churches, and returned for a second visit (this time attending the "contemporary" service) to a Lutheran church.The service progressed as it usually does until after the children's sermon (on fishers of men).
Then.
A man stood up, saying he's sorry to interrupt, but he just can't help himself. He's big, scruffy, not well dressed, missing some teeth, unshaven, dirty hair in a short pony tail.
You can imagine. It is not usual for someone to stand up and speak uninvited, out of order--especially a stranger. You could just see the questions running through everyone's heads. The discomfort. I'm sure the youngish pastor was thinking "oh, my gosh; how do I control this?!"
The man said he was homeless, and had met a "fisher of men" last night while panhandling. The man asked him if he knew Christ, took him to McDonald's to talk with him, where he knelt down and gave his life to the Lord. He spent last night in the woods, and this morning a lady handed him some shoes, saying the Lord had told her to give them to him (correct size--12), and that he should go to church. He'd never been in a Lutheran church (raised Baptist), but this was the first church he saw, so here he was. He hadn't spoken to his mother in Oklahoma for 10 years, and when he called her, the first words she said were "when did you get saved?" She said she knew when she realized it was him calling her, it was because God had answered her prayers. So he's hitching rides to get home to his mother, whose birthday is next weekend. He said everyone had been very welcoming to him at church today and he appreciated it. He apologized again for interrupting, and thanked us for the friendly welcome he'd already received.
There was frozen silence for a heartbeat, then the pastor walked over and gave this man a big hug. I'm weeping again just remembering. Then the pastor said in a strangled voice: "There's our Gospel. Amen. " And sat down. He truly meant that was the best sermon that could be preached this day. Eucharist was served. Benediction pronounced.
This had a huge impact on me. I think I am a compassionate person, and I am familiar with people living on the streets from my time in Atlanta. But I just couldn't stop thinking about how rich I am, and how my (very real) "issues" are just so different from the needs of this man. I didn't sleep in the woods last night. I had a shower this morning and am clean every day. My clothes were presentable. I had money in my purse, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I'd have lunch after church--after I stopped at Target to buy some new socks (not because I don't have any, but because I want to have enough so I don't have to use my handy dandy washing machine as much). And if I needed to get to my mother in Oklahoma, I'd buy a ticket or get in my car---after arranging time off from my job.
His name is George, this big child-man. I looked in his eyes as I spoke with him after service, and my heart will never be the same. I saw the Lord this morning. If you are a pray-er, please pray for George as he makes his way to Oklahoma and his mother.
2 comments:
Wow, what a cool story. Sometimes when I find myself caught up in the problems of my life, I'll suddenly get a glimpse at myself from the outside, like I'm watching instead of participating. As a participant, the pain is real and the dilemmas are urgent, but as an observer, I can see that while my experiences and problems aren't trivial and shouldn't be ignored, they really are the luxuries of a rich woman. I can afford a crisis of identity or a period of painful introspection because my basic physical needs are met. If I were living on the edge, a lot of the angsty things I spend my energy on would likely just fade away into nothing. But on the edge or not, I gotta deal with what I gotta deal with, and a dose of perspective like this helps. Thanks for passing the experience on.
Wow, Laura. Just. Wow. What a story. Aren't you curious what the next chapter will be for George? I am.
I like what Rachel shared about being able to afford the crisis of identity and painful introspection. Our troubles are indeed, so often, the luxuries of the rich. Doesn't make them any easier, but the perspective helps.
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