The following is unlike anything else that I have put on this blog, or on my other blogs. It is a personal essay written as much for myself as anyone else, but something I thought may be of interest to some. I have long wanted to write a book of such essays. I will try to write more similar essays if there is interest.
Being
Church in the Snow
These twelve Jesus sent out, charging
them, “Go nowhere among the Gentiles, and enter no town of the Samaritans, but
go rather to the lost sheep of Israel.
And preach as you go, saying ‘The kingdom of heaven is at hand.’ Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse
lepers, cast out demons.”
Matthew 10:5-8
“Truly I say to you, as you did it to one
of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.”
Matthew 25:40
I left work yesterday
when the snow started to fall quite hard, then began to stick to the
ground. At first it fell slowly,
then a little faster. But it
didn’t matter the amount. It was
so cold that many roads became impassible. It took me about three hours to get home, give or take a few
minutes one-way or the other. I
was lucky. It took some of my
co-workers who live close to me 4, 5, or even 6 hours before they made it
home. Others didn’t make it
home. They slept in hotels, or,
worse, in their cars on the side of the road, trying their best to stay warm
before help could arrive.
I only got home
faster because I drive a GMC truck, a large one, the type that goes where few
others can who don’t drive something similar. I took back roads, where pavement often ends, but where the
snow and the ice had accumulated much quicker than in other places. At first, I thought it was a good idea,
but wasn’t so sure once I had traveled a few miles in a little less than an
hour. There were very few people—a
few trucks about the same size as mine passed me, a house scattered here or
there. I knew roughly where I was
going and my plan for getting to my house. But I became quite nervous at one point.
I have at varying
time throughout my life suffered from an almost neurotic anxiety. I still suffer, and it was acute
yesterday, crossing over steep, icy hills where my truck—large and powerful as
it may be—slid this way and that, but, thank God, still managed to make it over
each one.
I practice the Jesus
Prayer as much as possible. One of
my prayer ropes typically resides in my left hand, or when I’m not using it, on
my right wrist. I always fancy
that it makes me more still, more calm, more loving, but then I get in
situations like yesterday, and I wonder if that’s the case. I prayed to God, begged God, to get me
home safely; I prayed for my co-workers and others, ones who I didn’t know to
make it home safely, for God to give them peace, to comfort them. But I didn’t feel comfortable.
I was anxious and tense. I
kept thinking that maybe it was better if I had taken a more conventional route
home, the interstate or one of the large highways. I feared my truck was going to get stuck in a ditch or cease
making it up snow-covered hills.
My cell phone was only working intermittently, and I had a brief vision
of freezing to death—or coming damn close—in the Alabama backwoods, where no
one knew where I was, and where no state safety crews would be able to reach
me.
The thoughts came to
me: I shouldn’t feel this way. I
should trust in the loving care of God, ever-present and filling all things,
even mud-drenched and ice-clad pick-up trucks. But I did feel that
way. Nervous. Anxious beyond what should be
reasonable. Frightened.
But then another
thought came to me for some reason: Christ’s twelve disciples. They’ve gotten, it seems to me at
least, quite a bit of bad press over the centuries. But they also seem to deserve it. Rarely do they seem to get the message that Jesus is giving them. And when they actually do get it, they either seem incapable of living out its
teachings, or they just forget about it altogether in a relatively brief amount
of time. Here I have in mind
Peter, who in one breath, when Jesus asks him, “Who do you say that I am?” replies, without thinking but with
utter certainty, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” But then, within moments, Jesus tells
him, “Get thee behind me, Satan!”
Which makes Peter,
makes the other disciples, amazingly like us, amazingly like me. We know, but we forget. We have peace, but we have
anxiety. And, yet, these are the
people that Jesus calls, not just to be his disciples, but to be his Church.
I crossed to the top
of another hill. Now the snow was
coming down with more ferocity.
The road was little more than a sheet of ice. A car was in front of me. It was stopped.
The hill in front of the car, in front of me, was of a very steep decline,
followed by another steep incline.
After about 5 minutes
of waiting on the car in front—another truck had pulled up behind me—I stepped
out of my truck, and walked up to the car. A young girl was driving, 17 or 18 years old, another girl
in the passenger seat. They were
crying. They needed to turn their
car around, knowing they weren’t going to make it up the next hill, but were
too afraid to attempt to do so.
They didn’t want to end up in one of the ditches to either side of the
road.
The man in the truck
behind me got out of it and approached.
He was amicable, even seemed to be in a good mood, though concerned for
the upset girls. He and I helped
the girls get their car turned around.
They were thankful, wiped their tears, smiled a little, then slowly
drove away.
He asked me where I
was trying to go. I told him. He gave me some general directions and
a few tips for navigating the roads ahead. I thanked him, but he followed me just to make sure I made
it down and up the next set of hills, then he turned into what I guess was his
driveway.
The twelve that were
chosen—broken men in many ways before coming to Jesus—continued to be broken
men after becoming disciples. They
knew Christ as their friend who they dearly loved, and certainly dearly loved
them. They ate with him. They sat next to him while he spoke all
that he speaks in the Gospels (and more).
They walked the length and breadth of the vast countryside with
him. Yet they continued to be
broken human beings.
As we continue to be
broken human beings. Their primary
calling seemed to be that they were to heal. It seems as if that is still their primary calling, for we
are now them, healing in whatever ways are possible, however large, however
small. On roads. In the snow.
