The journey of my doubts
Christ Church and St Mary’s, 8th
July 2001
"You must be joking!"
Well, that was my first reaction. I
don't know why. Probably a mixture of
things-shyness, fear, the sense that others could probably do better than me, a
feeling that it wasn't really my thing.
After all, he had his special ones didn’t he?
Or maybe it was a bit deeper than
that. Maybe it was a feeling that I
shouldn't really be bothering others, I should be leaving them to it, to find
their own path, their own peace. After
all, most people seem to survive without him, although I didn't know how I ever
could myself. But I suppose this was
the main thing that bothered me: Who was
I to tell people about him? I mean,
it's all right for those who actually think their opinions count for so much,
but what about for those of us who don't feel like we know it all, who haven't
got a grip on everything about him, who don't understand entirely what he has
come for?
So that evening, as I sat around
the fireplace with my friends-some new, some old, but all of us brought
together because of him, I decided to voice my doubts. The fire crackled comfortingly, popping and
shooting up the occasional firework of sparks as it lit up my friends’
faces. "What do you mean: Who are
we to bother people with him?"
said my slightly unnerving and fanatical pal Peter. “Didn't you hear what he said? There is a harvest out there. You think he’s used that image by
accident? Have you ever seen a harvest
gather itself? Wheat doesn't snap off
its feet and roll over into the bundle does it? We've got to go! God's
got plans-he wants his kingdom to come, his rule, his reign, over every area of
this world, and we've got to tell people about it. Do you think they will be helped to know about it if we just sit
on the backsides?”
Peter has a persuasive tone, but I
must admit I do feel he can be a bit of a bulldozer in his enthusiasm. I found myself sighing inside at his
bluntness, but I was beginning to run out of arguments. But what really swung me was Anthony. He always seems to have the well chosen
word. He sat there in the corner,
puffing on his pipe, almost unnoticeable. “Anthony,” I said to him. “Do you think we should be telling people
about him? Should we be so intrusive?” He sucked a couple of times on the pipe, we
all heard the whistle between his teeth.
“Well,” he answered. “If Peter
hadn't told me about him in the first place, I don't know where I'd be. So who am I to keep him to
myself?" He paused. "I once heard a friend who didn't
believe say, "If I believed what you believe about him, then I would call
across England on broken glass to tell you."
Well, that solved that little
problem. But I still felt worried. It was the single-mindedness about it that freaked
me out. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like
a good party, and I've seen some beautiful things he had made out of wood, but
he didn't want us to get too tied up with material things so that it stopped us
from sharing his news. And He said
“Don't talk to anyone on the road.” It
wasn’t like he wanted us to be antisocial, but it was like you were so set on
the mission that you couldn't think about anything else apart from telling
people about him. He didn't want us to
get distracted on to more trivial matters.
We had to be like a marathon runner, carrying the torch over the hills
and not stopping to do other things. It
all sounded so uncompromising-something to be decided on, something to be taken
seriously. Which I suppose it is. It reminds me of what made me turn towards
him. Simply a day in a park and a
friend asking, "Well, what is the purpose of your life?" The more I thought about it, the more tongue
tied I became. And now that the boot is
on the other foot, perhaps as tongue tied as I feel right now. Because as I think about doing this, doing
what he is asking me, I can't help thinking that it’s one thing for people to come
to me and ask me about him. It's
quite another for me to take the initiative, to be looking to share his news,
to be preparing the way for him, when people aren't necessarily expecting
me to be talking about it. That is
scary. And I'm not someone who likes to
be scared.
But the funny thing is that he
seems to understand that. Yes, he said
we should expect him to be doing powerful things - bringing healing, seeing
lives change, and that that would encourage us. But he also said we would be lambs among wolves. We should not necessarily expect to be
popular when we share him. And he said
we needed to make ourselves vulnerable- needing others, accepting
hospitality. Maybe he doesn't expect us
to have all the power, all the answers, to be totally self sufficient as we
share him. Maybe he just asks us to be
ourselves.
It’s often those who are closest to
you with whom it is more difficult.
When I told my sister that night what I was doing the response was
predictably scornful. "Why can't
he do it himself? Why does he have to
send you, his little helper?"
She got to me there. I got a little worried at this point so the
next morning I took him aside. “Jesus,”
I said. “Can I have a word?” “Of course, whenever you like.” When he looked at me, I knew he already
knew what I was going to say. That’s
often the way. But it seems important
to ask anyhow, and he seems to want to hear.
“Jesus,” I said. “I am sure you
are more than capable of doing this yourself.
Why do you have to send me?"
You know that feeling when you know
as soon as it is out of your mouth that you asked a stupid question? Well with him, it doesn't seem to matter how
many stupid questions you ask, because he seems delighted with all of them, and
to love me all the more for it. Anyway,
I knew what he was going to say.
"Guy, when you go and share my kingdom with everyone, I will
be doing it. Whoever listens to you,
listens in me."
So this has been the journey of my
doubts, the path of my fears. I’m
almost ready to hit the road now. I had
one more go and finding an excuse to keep my mouth shut. "Anthony," I said. “I would go out and do this thing but the
problem is I just don't know where to start.”
He looked at me with an annoying twinkle in his eye. "Do you know the story of Ali Facid?” He asked.
Another one who tells stories.
“No,” I said. “Ali Facid. He had
a
small farm and a family. One day, the story goes, a priest came by
and said to Ali Facid: You know, there are valuable stones called diamonds,
and if you get one of these you could be a wealthy man." Ali Facid went to
bed that night, but the words of the old priest haunted him. He was so
obsessed that he felt that he must find him one of these diamonds so that he
could become a ruler. He sold his farm, put his family out to neighbors and
went out to find his acres of diamonds. Months passed. He was broken in body
and spirit. His funds were gone. And at the Bay of Barcelona, he threw
himself into the water, never to walk this earth again.
Meanwhile, the man who bought his farm bent over one day and picked up a
little stone. He laid on the mantle that night not knowing what it was. A
few days later the old priest cam by and saw it and exclaimed: Ali
Facid must be back from his search. No, came the response. Then where did
that diamond come from? The farmer replied: I was out plowing in the garden
and found it there. And friends, did you know that from that very garden,
for this is not a legend but a true story, came the jewels and diamonds that
today adorn the crown heads of Europe and Russia. In Ali Facid's own back
yard there were acres of diamonds and he knew it not.”
I got the point. So, straight after this, I'm setting out
with my friends. I have something to
share. There are stones in my own
backyard whom God wants to turn into diamonds, to restore to their real
glory. I will share him and his
kingdom, whether I’m good at it or bad at it, and whether or not they end up
saying back to me, "You must be joking."