Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Neighbors

I don't know why I didn't call the police.

I guess I figured someone else would--call the police. It wasn't because he was black. Don't think that I'm one of them racists! I have neighbors that are black, some that are brown, too. In fact, I work with a Chinaman. No, sir, I'm not racist.

Sure, it bothered me. You would have to be stoned not to feel something inside when you watch someone getting the tar beat out of them. When those three fellas made a bit of a circle around him, I got a sort of shiver up and down. At first it wasn't too bad; a normal robbery it seemed. There is worse things than losing your money. I was already thinking that before they started to prove it true. Just when it seemed about over, the brute on the left gave our man a hefty wallop upside the head, and that started the real mess. Instead of leaving before the cops came, the other two joined in. Pretty soon they was kicking and spitting, too; it lasted a good while, and before it was over, my stomach was turning. It bothered me plenty.

I was kind of frozen. Not afraid, maybe a little horrified . . . but I've seen worse. I've done worse, I have to admit. I used to be pretty rotten, before I got myself straightened out. Now I keep to myself mostly. I was just standing there washing my dishes at the kitchen window, looking out at the street three stories below. Yeah, I froze a little. I know because I noticed the water still running a few minutes later even though I didn't have a dish in my hand, but that's not why I didn't call the police.

I don't really know why. Probably the same reason I didn't go down to help him after the other three had run out of body parts to bloody. I don't know. Instead, I turned off the water and stood there watching, kind of fascinated. I think I was about to run down to help, when . . . Yes! That was it! I was ready to run down to help when I saw a priest from the Catholic church around the corner. (I stepped in there once.) He was walking straight toward this fellow, and I knew he would get there first. The holy man would help him more than I could anyway. Yes, I remember now.

You can guess I was a little surprised when I saw the religious man start to cross the street. Maybe he didn't see him, crumpled up as he was. In my head, I started shouting, "No, look over there--that man needs your help!" Of course, no one heard me. And the priest never once looked over at that mangled pile of man, bleeding in the gutter.

My mouth felt suddenly dry, so I turned on the tap and filled a glass with water. A few sips did nothing to quench my thirst; nor did they stop my racing thoughts. That priest is my neighbor! What if that was me in the gutter? Somebody should help that fellow!

My thoughts were interrupted by a figure hurrying out of the bottem of my building. Aha! Jameson will help! Obviously he saw the whole thing and is running to the rescue. He probably called the police, too, and an ambulance. I always liked Jameson. Nevermind that I don't really know him; I seen him coming and going from that Baptist church downtown. He nods "howdy" but doesn't bother me; fine fellow. Thank goodness somebody's doing something!

You can imagine I was stunned when Jameson ran right past the man! Not even right past--he crossed the road, too, as if walking near a hurting man would bring bad luck. Brings guilt is more like it! He didn't even slow down; I think he marched faster! He had to have seen him, but he didn't do nothing!

Now I was mad! I don't care if he's a black man or a red man or rainbow-colored, he deserves some help! I had half a mind to run down myself to see what I could do, but I was stopped short by what I saw. It was that lousy Arab man, the one that wears his terrorist turban when he shuffles by; I just know he is going to press the button on his suicide underwear when someone makes him angry. I leaned forward to open the window to yell at him; I could see his filthy hands just itching to rob that penniless pile of bruises.

I was right! I saw him hurry forward toward the body, not caring that his light clothes were turning a dirty red at the knees! He checked for a pulse to make sure his victim wouldn't wake, and I opened my mouth to shout . . . and then gasped. He wasn't robbing him; he was helping him! From somewhere he pulled out a bottle of water, and I could even hear the ripping fabric as he tore his own clothes to bind up his bleeding neighbor.

Now there was something in my throat, and water wasn't helping. I pulled out my own bottle, sure that gin would do the trick. I began sipping as I watched what was happening below. Surely Ahab would call the paramedics?

By now, it was hard to be surprised. But I think I started sweating, too, as I watched this slender, dark-skinned figure wrestle with the dead weight of the crumpled man, staggering with the effort, and finally managing to haul him onto his shoulders in a sloppy fireman's carry. "You shouldn't move him!" I wanted to shout, but I was in awe, and I took another sip. Slowly the duo weaved forward, both oblivious to the not-so-subtle stares of passing pedestrians. I watched until they turned onto the next street, and as I continued to replay the scene in my head, I wondered where he was taking him. No urgent care was close enough for such a burdened man on foot.

Suddenly, I looked at the glass in my hand. I couldn't keep drinking; I had to go to work in an hour! Time flies when you're gawking at your neighbors! I quickly finished the dishes and shoved the alcohol in a cabinet. Then I jumped in the shower, shaved, and combed my hair. I lost a little time looking for a matching pair of socks, pulled on my scrubs, and grabbed my bag, debating whether to take my car or catch the bus. As I stepped into the twilight, I thought of the three hoodlums and resisted the urge to cross myself.

By the time I reached the ER, I was nearly late for my shift. As I rounded the building and rushed through the doorway, I barely avoided smashing into a dirty, tired-looking man who was wandering out. Annoyed, I made up for lost time with three enormous steps, and then I stopped dead in my tracks. That was the terrorist. . . I mean, the Arab man! I turned around to look, but he was gone. Mechanically, I continued my career until I found my collegue, who rapidly briefed me on the patients. He finished by telling me about the most recent arrival, now admitted to the hospital proper, an unidentified black man, beaten and robbed. Though he remained a "John Doe," they had contact information for the man who had brought him in. He had paid in advance, requesting a private room for the patient, and he left his name, address, and cell phone number, with instructions to prepare a bill for him, to be ready when he returned to check on his friend the in two days.

I hardly let the doctor finish, I pretended to complete my first round and at the first free moment I found, I sprinted upstairs and found our John Doe. Who was this Arab? Quickly I scanned the chart, not really hearing the machine's beeps reporting the vitals of the man in critical condition. I found the address before I saw the name: 1029 Lukas Street, Building J, Apartment 307...

I dropped the clipboard, not reading any further.

That was my address: my building, my floor. How had I never seen this man coming or going? Why had I never cared enough to ask, "Who is my neighbor?"

The clatter of the clipboard must have awakened the patient. He half-opened his eyes and mumbled, "Thanks for helping me, Doc.," before he dozed off again.

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A Rose From Home

A Rose From Home

My Story (As prepared for my church congregation this spring--2009)


I have a story to tell you. I am the main character, but the story is not about me. I have traveled several parts of the world, but my adventure has been closer to home. I am twenty-six years old. My story begins like many of yours…

I grew up going to church. I had been born into a family who labeled themselves “Christian,” in a country that labels itself “Christian.” Every Sunday found me attending a worship service and Sunday school in a mainline denomination church. I served as an acolyte, attended Vacation Bible School, helped my dad count and record the offering money, sang in the youth choir, was a leader in the youth group, and occasionally served as liturgist. Baptized as an infant, I was confirmed at the age of twelve, thus becoming an “official” member of the church. Then, hurt by the church, my family left to find another.

Have you ever been hurt by the Church?

After months of searching, we settled into a very large independent church. Things were different there, and I was quickly welcomed and at home among new friends that truly had a passion for Jesus. The Word of God was taught boldly from the pulpit, and I was introduced to a missions-aware lifestyle. So it was with regret that I said goodbye only a couple of years later to move with my family to another church. I purposely remained aloof, not wanting to make new friendships before I left for college a year later. Besides, I was loosing my faith—or so I thought—and I didn’t want anyone to know. I was asking scary questions like “Is there really a God?” and, if so, “Is He the Christian God?” and “Would I be Christian if I had been born in another part of the world?”

Have you ever asked yourself unsettling questions about what you believe?

So I headed into college under a cloud of confusion that only worsened for the next two years. Though I didn’t know what I believed anymore, I continued to go to church every Sunday, and to help lead worship in chapel. Most importantly, even during this questioning, I continued my morning habit of daily study of the Bible. I had begun at age twelve, reading at first a chapter per day, then ten minutes each morning, then an half-hour, and so on. So, only by the grace of the very God I doubted, I remained anchored in His Word and in His community, though I felt like a fake most of the time. Since then I have learned that “fake” is the worst insult the world can give us; that is why the label of “hypocrite” is so offensive.

Have you ever felt like a fake?

Six weeks with missionaries in South Africa followed by a year in France began to teach me what life with God is all about. I began rebuilding my faith, this time it belonged to me, in contrast to me borrowing the faith of my parents, church, or anyone else. In my parent’s basement in 2003, on either Christmas Eve or New Year’s Eve, I invited Jesus to live in me; perhaps I had done so before, but I didn’t recall—but since 2003, I have never forgotten that moment. Unfortunately, nothing changed. I continued to do my best to act like a Christian, as I had done for so long.

Have you ever found yourself “doing your best” to be a good person, or to act like a Christian?

Though I did not realize it at the time, I was quenching the Spirit, even though I had welcomed Him into my life. During the next few years, the LORD continued to nurture me, and slowly things began to change. Several tough months in Idaho birthed my prayer-life. I spent three years being humbled in a job that was my informal seminary training. In 2007, a short stint in Mexico helped me to see things as they were, and not long afterward, I was baptized by immersion. No baptism of any kind can save a lost soul—only Jesus can do that. However, this baptism was an important covenant between me and God, symbolizing not only my death and resurrection with Jesus and my public profession of faith, but it also my life change, the beginning of my bearing fruit. “For each tree is known by its own fruit…”according to Luke 6:44. During the past year and a half, the LORD has provided me with an informal pastoral internship in my church, teaching me every aspect of discipleship. Simultaneously, I have been studying unceasing prayer and worship. I am now very different than I was five years ago.

In the Book of Acts (which tells the story of the earliest years of the Church) every time a person decided to follow Christ, two things took place—though not always in the same order. Each person experienced a life change, which I call the “baptism of repentance,” as well as the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, which I call the “baptism of the Spirit.” Looking back, I realize that the Holy Spirit was living in me in 2003, but it wasn’t until I surrendered everything to God, as represented by my immersion, that I allowed the Spirit to have His way in me and transform my life. “I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now life in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself up for me. (Galatians 2:20)”

Have you invited Jesus to live in you? Have you allowed the Spirit to transform your life?

I tell you this story for two reasons. First, I tell this story in order to boast in the LORD! May God our Father get all praise and glory forever! Second, I tell this story because it is relevant to you. Likely you have heard that I am leaving the country: I have let my light shine before you; please let your light shine within the Church, too! This congregation is in revival, and as each of you allows the Spirit to revive you, the entire Church will be revived and utterly transformed, to the glory of the Most High God. And for His glory is the reason He created us; the reason He sent His only Son to reveal Himself to us; the reason He became Sin for us and died for us on the cross—while we were still sinners; and the reason that He conquered death and offered us eternal life with Him.

It will cost you a lot—in fact, it will cost you everything, your very life. But if you have never surrendered your life to Christ Jesus, if you have never invited Him to send His Spirit into you and to transform your life, then do it right now. Just let go of everything to which you are desperately clinging; stop trying to do it yourself! This is the very reason you are still breathing in this physical life—God has been delaying His judgment of this sinful world because He is waiting for you—2 Peter 3:9 says He wants none to perish!

If you have already invited the Spirit into your life, then live like it! Bear fruit! Anyone and everyone who meets you or knows you or sees you or hears you should know immediately and clearly that Jesus the Christ lives in you and loves them! That is how stark the contrast should be between your life and the world around you!

Have you immersed yourself in God’s Word and in prayer in the last twenty-four hours?

If you call yourself a follower of Christ, then there is no excuse for not communing with Him daily! Anchor yourself in the Word! God has revealed Himself to us through His Son, Jesus Christ, and the Bible is a complete and accurate record of that revelation. And prayer is humbly letting Him love us. Let Him love you! God doesn’t need us, but He wants us! God doesn’t need us to live for Him—He wants to live in and through us! Let us love and fellowship with one another, even when you disagree! Pray for each other—the names in the church directory are a great place to start! Church, we are not only the Body of Christ, but we are the Bride of Christ. We have allowed ourselves to get bedraggled and stained—now let us stand to the glory of God! Let’s let Him purify us, restore us, and love us!

My dear Brothers and Sisters, if you have ever once been blessed by God our Father at work in me, then I urge you, please, take seriously His desire to love and work in you, beyond anything you can ask or imagine! I have told you the beginning of my story—may it end in glory to the Father, in the Name of Jesus, by way of His Spirit.

Now, what is your story?