*** justLISTENING

Sometimes, the narrative is obvious.

A man in a fine tailored suit walks into a room and we immediately begin to make assumptions.

He’s important. 

He’s rich.

He’s well-connected.

He’s busy.

Without knowing anything about the man in a fine tailored suit, we begin to paint his narrative for him. We start telling his story based on what we think we know, on what we assume about him, and on what we expect about him.

So, here’s an experiment.

Stop what you’re doing.

Close your eyes and imagine the following: A man in a fine tailored suit walks into a church he’s unfamiliar with on a cold, rainy night. Some sort of meeting or service is taking place this evening. He carefully taps his drenched umbrella on the lobby’s rug to expel some of the water from it before he walks into the sanctuary and directly to a pew in the back. He sits down. Head down. Silent. Contemplative. Just listening to what’s being spoken, or sung, or prayed. Just listening.

As you picture this individual, feel free to make your assumptions on who he is. Or how important he is. Or why he showed up to this church. Or where he just came from. Or, of all the nights he could have chosen to come to church, why he chose to come to church tonight.

Open your eyes now or else you’re just gonna start creeping out the people next to you.

In the back of your mind, remember the narrative you just painted about this man in a fine tailored suit.

By the time you’re done reading this article, at least some detail of this narrative will change.

I assure you.

I also assure you that I’m going somewhere with this experiment. 

*** theWRECKAGE

I swear I didn’t kill it.

But all that was left of it that evening was a shredded, mangled mess-of-a-carcass nestled up against the double-yellow lines on the street. There was still enough light left lingering overhead that I could make out the guts that spilled out. And there was just enough darkness newly falling overhead that rendered the species of the carcass a mystery to me.

It was either a small cat or a fairly large squirrel. Needless to say, it didn’t quite make it across the street in time.

I drove up to it. Slowed down. Stared curiously. Swerved slightly to avoid brushing my tires up against any of the splatter. Stared some more. And I drove off.

It was just a carcass.

It was just a mess.

It was just a wreckage. Of sorts.

But my reaction to the wreckage now makes me wonder a bit.

Did I swerve my car because I wanted to spare my glorious tires from some sort of Wreckage Residue that was putrid and unappealing and probably beginning to attract flies? I’m usually not that superficial.

Did I swerve my car because I thought the animal could somehow still be alive and needed to not be smothered any further so that it could eventually make a complete recovery? That’s probably just an overly-optimistic pipe dream.

Did I swerve my car because I didn’t want to be viewed as a heartless Carcass Re-Crusher? Nobody was around and I probably wouldn’t have felt terribly guilty about it.

OR… did I swerve my car to just avoid the situation? Because I didn’t want to be bothered? Because I just wanted to go home? Because the carcass wasn’t my concern? Because the wreckage wasn’t my fault?

(Before continuing, I want to assure you that this will not be some sort of Morality Instruction Manual On How To Handle Dead Animals. There exists a point in here somewhere if you permit me the chance to explain.)

The funny thing is that, when I was swerving to avoid the mess entirely, it provided to me a better vantage point from which I could either continue staring at the mess in entirety or do something about it.

The further I tried to take myself away from the mess- away from the wreckage- the clearer the picture became. The wider the lens became.

Stepping back from the wreckage unwittingly made the wreckage so much more vivid for me.

I wanted nothing to do with the wreckage and yet I couldn’t help staring.

*** sorelyMISTAKEN

Unfortunately, I see this in Indian churches often. Maybe it’s not universally true for all Indian churches. Or all churches. But I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

I don’t want to merely opine. I don’t want to merely generalize. I don’t want to make a blanket statement without providing statistical information to verify what I’m positing.

But I’ll go ahead anyway and speak in generalities to make a point…

We want nothing to do with wreckage.

A stranger walks into church with a past as checkered as Lindsay Lohan’s standing with the law.

A young unwed girl sits down in the back row of church with her infant daughter.

A guy walks in and lifts up his hand during prayer and reveals a simultaneously dazzling and distracting array of tattoos and piercings and scars from years and years of reckless intravenous drug use.

They don’t look like we want them to. They don’t act like we want them to. They don’t have stainless reputations like we expect from everybody that walks through our hallowed halls.

Their Wreckage Residue is putrid and unappealing and is probably beginning to attract flies.

Whether we like it or not, we immediately paint narratives of the people that we see. And, far too often, the narratives of their wreckages make us cringe rather than care.

We want nothing to do with wreckage. And, yet, we can’t help staring.

We back ourselves away from them and their wreckage after giving them a cold and impersonal ”hello” and “nice to meet you”… You know, just to feel good about ourselves. 

But the funny thing is that, in our stepping back from the mess we don’t really want to engage in, we’re able to see the magnitude of a fellow sinner’s wreckage.

Up close, they don’t look like us. Up close, they don’t behave like us. Up close, they seemingly don’t belong… But after taking a step back, we see the weight of the world on the shoulders of a lonely person, sitting isolated on the end of a church pew. After taking a step back, we see that the struggles of this person are really no different than what we ourselves have been fighting and hiding for so long.

We want nothing to do with wreckage.

Immediately, we stare.

Immediately, we don’t want to be involved.

But, as Christians… shouldn’t we want to be involved? To some degree? At the very least, to reach out and tell them that it’s okay? That, here at our churches, they’re finally home? Because, as Morton Kelsey once famously wrote, maybe “the church is not a museum for saints but a hospital for sinners” after all?

Isn’t THAT supposed to be the realnarrative here?

Or am I just sorely mistaken?

Maybe the narratives we’re painting are inadequate.

*** rightAThome

Let’s continue the earlier experiment for a moment.

Close your eyes again and recall the aforementioned scene about the man in a fine tailored suit.

But, this time, I’ve added one last detail at the very end of the scene: A man in a fine tailored suit walks into a church he’s unfamiliar with on a cold, rainy night. Some sort of meeting or service is taking place this evening. He carefully taps his drenched umbrella on the lobby’s rug to expel some of the water from it before he walks into the sanctuary and directly to a pew in the back. He sits down. Head down. Silent. Contemplative. Just listening to what’s being spoken, or sung, or prayed. Just listening... And, right then, at that very moment, he feels right at home.

Again, feel free to make your assumptions on who he is, keeping in mind that he now “feels right at home.” Assume how important he is. Or why he showed up to this church. Or where he just came from. Or, of all the nights he could have chosen to come to church, why he chose to come to church tonight.

Has your narrative of this person changed at all?

Should your narrative change at all?

*** strewnGUTS

Maybe I reacted to the carcass the way I did because I could clearly see that the carcass itself represented a sense of finality. A sense of termination.

It was no longer living and breathing and virile.

That animal was dead. There was nothing I was going to be able to do to bring it back to life.

So, I carefully maneuvered my car around the mess and stared at the wreckage.

What else could I do for it now?

The narrative of that animal was complete.

Its story had been told. Its book had been closed. The pen had been set aside.

Its guts were strewn across the pavement as proof of its irredeemability. As if I needed any proof at all.

But, is ALL wreckage irredeemable?

*** notIRREDEEMABLE

Often in our churches, we interact with wreckages under the inadvertant assumption that their mess is too big for us to want to be a part of.

In some way, that’s fine. We don’t want to add to their mess. We don’t want to barge into their business or private matters.

That makes sense.

But, that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t be a light to them.

That doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t point them to a Savior that happened to redeem you and me from our own personal disasters and messes.

That doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t say more than a “hello” when we know they could use a “you wanna meet up for coffee with me to just talk?”

The truth is, for a Christian, the wreckage we come in contact with is far from irredeemable.

Even though we act like it’s beyond hope.

That person who doesn’t look like us, or act like us, or doesn’t possess the same reputations as we think we do is NOT beyond repair.

The callous former criminal. The tarnished teen mother. The tattoo- and piercing- and scar-covered former drug user.

They’re NOT beyond repair.

I promise.

The wreckage is WORTH saving. It’s WORTH doing something about. It’s redeemable, as ridiculous as it may seem.

Far too often, we let our “hellos” ring out as the full extent of our Christianity. And, far too often, we step back and stare and paint the sinners’ narratives quietly in the back of our minds.

But, unlike the shredded animal carcass on the road, there exists a hope of redeemability for the broken and bruised and battered sinner.

Because of a Savior who was broken and bruised and battered for us.

Instead of merely dismissing those that don’t possess the narratives we WANT them to possess, it’s our job- as Christians- to do something.

We need to notice the broken. And stop our cars next to them. And get out. And let them know that they’re not damaged goods. That they’re not irredeemable. That they’re not beyond repair.

That, no matter where they’ve been or what they’ve done or how they look, a Savior died so that whoever believes in Him couldn’t possibly have a sin greater than the sacrifice He made on a cross.

That may not be the most theologically-sound sentence. But you get the point.

We need to embrace the wreckage of others. Not drive off and stare.

We need to stop painting narratives of people we don’t know if we won’t even bother sharing Christ’s love with them first.

That’s just reckless of us.

Because, if you take a moment to think about it, WE were wreckages, too.

*** andSMILES

For the last time, let’s continue the earlier experiment.

Close your eyes again and recall the man in a fine tailored suit.

But, this time, I’ve added a few details to the scene. Because there is absolutely no way you could have assumed any of this on your own. Because the narrative is incomplete without this information…

A man in a fine tailored suit walks into a church he’s unfamiliar with on a cold, rainy night. He has just lost his job an hour ago. He has just gotten kicked out of his apartment for failing to pay his rent for a few months, barely able to make ends meet after losing his life savings and cash through terrible mismanagement of his funds. By people he thought he could trust. By people who took advantage of his naivete and generosities… Some sort of meeting or service is taking place at the church this evening. He carefully taps his drenched umbrella on the lobby’s rug to expel some of the water from it before he walks into the sanctuary and directly to a pew in the back. The drops of rain water streaming down the pinstripes of his suit jacket mix with his falling tears as they roll steadily down and off his cheeks. He sits down. Head down. Silent. Contemplative. Just listening to what’s being spoken, or sung, or prayed. Just listening... And, right then, at that very moment, he feels right at home. Even though he no longer has a home. Or a job. Or hope… Something about this place makes him feel like there is STILL a reason for him to exist. That there is still love out there for him. That the sudden snowballing tragedies of his crashing-and-burning world are erased in the scar-bearing hands of a Savior who the speaker on stage gushes eloquently and proudly and happily and victoriously about. And, so, the man in the fine tailored suit tilts his head up. And smiles.

Open your eyes.

I ended the first experiment with “just listening.” I ended the second with “right at home.” And neither phrase gave you as clear a picture about the state-of-mind of the man in the fine tailored suit as the final phrase in this last experiment: “And smiles.”

That phrase speaks volumes.

Not because of who you assumed he was.

But because of what you know he’s just been through.

That’s the true narrative.

Who did you assume this person was? Or why he showed up to this church? Or where he just came from? Or, of all the nights he could have chosen to come to church, why he chose to come to church tonight?

You painted the narrative that made the most sense to you.

But the reality is that everyone needs a Savior. Needs hope. Needs love.

The narrative is useless if it doesn’t tell the whole story.

We are all wreckages.

And there exists beauty in the redemption.