I generally like to read people the way I would a good book. The idea is that our lives tell a story. I've been interested in this idea for the past few years. A good friend of ours, along with her best friend decided to get in her car and go. The destination didn't matter so long as they hit each state at some point on the way. What ensued over the next several months was a life changing pilgrimage, encountering God and living off of the kindness of strangers. Adam and I followed her blog,
I Am Free, with anticipation. We had a wonderful time when they passed through our neck of the woods and when they left she surprised us with a gift. A book call,
A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, by Donald Miller. Earlier in her travels she had crossed paths with Donald Miller himself and had him sign the copy she gave us. Nice friend, huh? The book is about the amazing people you meet along the way. Further more, it's about how a film company wanted to make a movie about Donald's life and when they went to write it they all realized his life was boring and no one would probably want to watch it. This sad epiphany spurred him on to live a life worth watching. It's an excellent read and the whole concept of, what story is your life telling, has since stuck with me.
Fast forward to about a month ago and Adam and I were at hippie church. I can't capitalize the name because it's not actually called hippie church but there really is no other way to describe it. Picture hippies...having church. There was about ten or so of us sitting on couches listening to the pastor go on passionately and in walks a homeless man. This wasn't that unusual, as there was already another homeless man sitting in the 'Revelation Rocker.' Like I said, hippies, gotta love 'em. The homeless man sits down and the pastor continues on. All of the sudden there's a break in the preaching and the homeless man yells out, "Oh yeah! What if you
HATE God?!" I'm telling you, the air in the room got sucked out as though the giant vacuum from
Space Balls did it. Almost immediately after, the homeless man was barraged by a bunch of over zealous Christians fiercely defending their God. As if God, the creator of the universe and all that's in it, actually needs us to defend Him. I just picture one of those little yappy dogs trying to protect its owner as if it actually had the ability to do so. I mean really, even I could punt one of those little guys...not that I would, I love dogs and that would be mean. I'm just saying. Even Jesus loves the little ankle biters. Ok where was I, yes, homeless man - barrage - Christians. I sat there listening to people trying to convince the man why God should be loved and honestly, I felt like he was being bullied. I'm not trying to pick on my brethren, to use a Christian term, they really are great people. I'm just saying their words at that particular moment weren't inspired by love; they were coming from a place of defense. That's when my heart started to race, my bones started to burn within me and I had to say something or I would explode.
This is when the two halves of my brain collided. My inner nerd joined forces with fiery Italian as my index finger rose into the air. "Excuse me, excuse me, may I interject?" The pastor gave the nod and what came next can only be described as this: "This man was made in the image of the Most High God and since we understand that, WE are held accountable to treating him with respect. You don't just wake up one day and say, 'oh, I think I'll hate God now.' Obviously the events in his life have brought him to this conclusion. His life and his story have value and is to be honored. So, what's your story?" The needle scratched off the record player, the room went silent and the man shot me a look like he just got caught in headlights. He took a moment to compose himself. The man proceeded to tell us that over the course of his life he watched three of his girlfriends and his mother die; he had been sober for ten years and that's how God repaid him. He had spent several months in the hospital only for the doctors to tell him that nothing was wrong. He is still very ill. The crowing piece of his tale however, came with uplifted hand as he held an imaginary knife and told us how he didn't kill a man, even though he had the chance and really wanted to; he claimed that God never honored him for that. It became clear that over the years he did in fact have a relationship with the Lord but at the present time was actively choosing to blame God rather than be transformed by Him. After all even precious metal has to go through the refiners fire to be purified.
Once his discourse was over I quickly realized that the others in the room had not spoken to him out of defense but rather frustration. This man had been there before. The church had in the past reached out to him in love, going so far as to try and get him off the streets and into a rehabilitation program. This man was only there to cause a ruckus and maybe get a meal. After we left and I had time to reflect I began to feel a bit silly. That's my M.O. you know, open my big mouth first, feel silly later. I'm currently working on my Ph.D. in that field and can soon be addressed as Dr. Big Mouth. I suppose my point in all of this is that every life tells a story. Whether it's the homeless person who's so easy to walk by on the street or someone serving nine to five in a cubical in Corporate America, every story has value. I'll leave you with this: What story is your life telling? If it were written down would it be worth reading? By the way that homeless man, he has a name, it's Greg.
