Christian

Someday your heart will be asking, What will He do with me?

I grew up singing those words, the closing of a song entitled, What Will You Do With Jesus? I hadn’t thought about the song for a few decades.

A Catholic priest brought it to mind again today. I wish I could remember his name. I saw his words in print for a few seconds. The words are burned into my brain; his name, unfortunately, is not.

When you look at the refugees, can you see Jesus?

The news and social media have been full of the stories for the last few weeks. Refugees from the ethnic and religious purging in Syria have been displaced into surrounding Middle Eastern countries, a process which began almost four years ago. Now, they are pouring into Europe by the hundreds of thousands. There seems to be no end in sight for the crisis.

Over the last few days, I have seen many individuals claiming that it is our national responsibility to take in a large number of these refugees. The argument is that as Christians, we must do our part.

What would Jesus do?

I won’t argue with them. Time will tell what is to be done there.

I have bigger problems.

Or possibly, smaller ones.

I don’t want to talk about the millions of refugees. I don’t want to discuss the millions of babies being slaughtered by abortion. I don’t want to argue about which ethnic or civil group’s lives matter.

You think me cold? Insensitive?

I’m not.

It’s important to tackle the larger issues facing us as a nation—as a world—as people of faith. The problem is that, too often, our participation in that discussion is a cop-out.

You see, for most of us it’s just that—a discussion.

We talk. We get angry. We get self-righteous.

But, we never get dirty. Our hands never once touch the people who need a human touch. All we want to do is to make our point and win the debate.

And, when the government agencies have done their part, when the monies designated to give relief are delivered, when the temporary housing has been fabricated, we will breath a sign of relief and, with one last self-righteous toss of our heads, we’ll turn again to our clean, sterile lives.

We talk a good game, don’t we?

After all, that’s what the Teacher commended His good servants for, wasn’t it?

I was naked, and you gave money to UNICEF. I was sick and you checked to see where Doctors Without Borders were docking next. I was in prison and you signed petitions to the government for my release.

What? You don’t like my paraphrase?

Millions of refugees in the Middle East? Easy-peasy!

African-American brothers and sisters seeking justice in urban areas? You have my full support!

I read the words I have written and realize it seems as if I think we should abandon our concern for a world in need. I don’t.

I don’t!

But, what I know—know beyond any argument—is that we have been given tasks which require our hands to get dirty. When we finish the task we’ve been assigned, we will stink.

We don’t get to stand, like some politician who has just blinded the opposition with his brilliant rhetoric, clasping our hands above our heads in victory.

We get to stand, dejected in the rain as the ambulance pulls away, because the drug addict we tried to help just overdosed and lost her battle with the demons inside—and outside—her.

We get to sit on the edge of our elderly neighbor’s front porch, sweaty and exhausted, and look over the neatly trimmed landscape we’ve just finished mowing. After we had already done our own lawn.

We get to spend our Sunday afternoon with that young lady who has a black eye, finding a shelter for her and helping to fill out police reports.

We get to stand with an arm around the drunk man in the emergency room waiting area as, down the hall, his wife fights for her life after a failed suicide attempt.

The opportunities will never end. The people who need our touch—our touch, not our words—will stretch out from here to the end of our lives.

Because every single one of them looks like Jesus to us. Every single one of them.

The priest had the right idea.

And the Teacher said, “If you’ve done it to the least of these, you’ve done it to me.

The words still echo in my head. Forty years since I last sang them, and certainly with a different perspective, they still echo.

What will you do with Jesus?

Then these righteous ones will reply, ‘Lord, when did we ever see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you something to drink? Or a stranger and show you hospitality? Or naked and give you clothing? When did we ever see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!’
(Matthew 25:37-40 ~ NLT)

Jesus is standing in Pilate’s hall,
Friendless, forsaken, betrayed by all;
Hearken! what meaneth the sudden call?
What will you do with Jesus?

What will you do with Jesus?
Neutral you cannot be;
Someday your heart will be asking,
“What will He do with me?”
(A B Simpson ~ Canadian theologian ~ 1843-1919)

I almost laughed at the silly statement. Then, I sat still and considered the depth of understanding demonstrated by the author.

I was reading one of those ubiquitous habits of a highly successful person lists. They seem to be everywhere and to be tailored for every possible profession. This one had to do with writers.

I’d like to be a writer when I grow up. It makes sense for me to pay attention when free advice is offered.

I don’t know what the first five habits were. Can’t remember anything about them, really. I think there was something about reading more, and maybe a suggestion that I find someplace quiet to do it. I really don’t remember.

It doesn’t matter. I can remember the important habit. The silly one.

The list was full of good advice which I will, no doubt, ignore completely. The helpful author ended with one piece of counsel which I will not ignore.

The last item on the list said simply: Successful writers write.

They write. They do what they do.

More than that, they do what they are.

It really does seem unnecessary to even make the statement, doesn’t it? Of course, they write! How could you call yourself a writer if you didn’t write?

I remembered the principle quite by chance the other day. I was talking with a young man at church about a great piano solo his brother had played that morning. As is common with such conversations, I felt the need to throw in the statement that I was a pianist, too.

The young man didn’t let that get past without comment. “Oh. You play, too? Where do you play?”

I was taken aback. I haven’t played the piano anywhere for years. Seriously. Years. I won’t even play at home anymore. Oh, once in awhile, I strike a chord and a melody of about four notes and I’m done.

I don’t play the piano. I had to admit as much to the nice fellow. He was kind and didn’t press the subject further.

I’m not a pianist. I do know how to play the piano, but I don’t do it.

The list of these natural correlations would be endless, so I’ll just mention a few to reinforce the obvious.

Dieters diet. Runners run. Builders build. Preachers preach. Drivers drive. Actors act. Photographers photograph.

The concept is pretty clear, isn’t it? Also, pretty unassailable. If one is something, they do that something.

I promise, I sat down tonight with only one goal in mind–to write. When nothing came immediately to mind, that phrase, writers write, began to go through my thoughts and I simply started to do just that–to write. My problem is, as usually happens, a bigger lesson is just begging to be learned from my poverty of original ideas.

I’m wondering if too many of us are claiming to be something, but are not actually putting that something into practice. It is true of many things, but I’m especially thinking about our faith as I write this.

If I claim to be a disciple of someone or something, but there is no discipline practiced, am I really a disciple?

Should I put it more clearly?

If I claim to be a follower of Christ (the name Christian means exactly that), but don’t actually follow His teachings, I’m not actually His follower, am I?

The words are misused so often, but He is the one who spoke them, long ago now. They still haven’t lost their impact.

By their fruit, they shall be known.

I can’t be a writer if I don’t write. I’m not a pianist if I don’t play the piano. What I am, I will put into practice.

Always.

And what of grace? Lest it appear that I am suggesting that we must work ourselves into God’s presence, I will say unequivocally that the work of salvation is wholly and completely His. Grace is freely given. Freely.

Our walk with the Giver of grace is another story. The story of our life.

It’s time to do what we are. Past time.

I’m going to keep writing, too.

I want to be a writer when I grow up. Someday.

“You will know them by their fruits. Grapes are not gathered from thorn bushes nor figs from thistles, are they?
(Matthew 7:16 ~ NASB)

“Enough had been thought, and said, and felt, and imagined. It was about time that something should be done.”
(from Surprised by Joy ~ C.S. Lewis ~ British theologian/novelist ~ 1989-1963)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Can You See Jesus?

Do What You Are