Courage to be saved is the
first step on the route to salvation
I received a phone call the other day from
a fellow I knew when I was ministering to a congregation in Grand
Forks, N.D. The first thing I noticed was that the guy
was drunk. He's 45 years old now and obviously has not overcome
his problems. I met this man when he was 13 years old. He was
sent to me by his mother, who felt he needed a friend after a
close relative had died in prison. He came willingly, glib and happy to be
in my presence. We talked and we listened. It was a good relationship.
I thought I had him on the way to the good life when he moved
out of town at the age of 14. I remember shaking his hand the last time
I saw him and probably offering some kind of weak advice. Then
31 years later he called me on a Sunday afternoon and wanted to
talk about his messed-up life. He said he was looking for a miracle, and
he knew Jesus could give him that special push into mental health. "I'm just waiting for Jesus to give
me that miracle 'cause I can't do it myself," he said. We chatted for a while and when I began
to press him to take some action himself, he hung up the phone
with a jolt. So I shook off the conversation and went
back to my Sunday pleasures. But his memory clung to me all day.
I dreamed about him that night and first thing in the morning
woke up thinking about that relationship. I remembered what he said at the end of
our brief chat: "All I'm asking is for a handshake and a
hello. And you want me to pull myself up by the bootstraps. I've
got two pair of shoes, and they've both got bootstraps, and none
of them work." My problem was that, even as we talked,
I knew there was absolutely nothing I could do for this man because
he was not willing to do good work for himself. I had no capacity
for saving him. He had no desire to be saved. I failed him. And
he failed himself. There were no winners in this game of life.
So during the Easter season, how do we deal with our failures? Obviously, this was one doozy that would
follow me for a while and haunt me at unlikely times. That's the
problem with dealing with people. They often don't let us forget
that we have failed them, over and over again. But I remind myself that I have also had
successful relationships. I remember the students I taught and
how tough it was to leave them at the end of the year. I remember
how they came back to see me and would sit with me during church. One young man by the name of Mike came to
the school where I taught through the courts. He came to live
with his grandmother after several months in juvenile detention
and many years of neglect. The first day was the toughest for Mike.
He was short but tough, and when a bigger boy on the playground
began to tease him, Mike carefully pulled a 3-foot chain from
his pocket and began whipping his opponent, literally bringing
the boy to his knees, screaming. For weeks he sat with his brown-bag
lunch on the corner of his desk, and if someone got too close
to his food, he would reach out and gently push him away. Nobody trifled with Mike. But I trusted
him, and I told him the only way he could get in trouble with
me was to break that trust. He knew exactly what I meant, and
through that entire year, aside from that first playground fight,
Mike was a model student. The people in the classroom gave him
an opportunity to be a normal guy, and he accepted joyfully. He
knew what he had - a normal life. And he lived it gratefully. The theological truth was, Mike had been
resurrected from a dark life of neglect and distrust to a new
existence in the light of love and trust. So how do some people
let darkness smother them while others throw it off and gather
in the light? That is a question that has plagued caregivers for
centuries. And there are no answers. The best we can
do is give ourselves away and pray that some great force will
assist in the resurrection. Because in every religious experience,
it is not miracles that bring resurrection but a deep desire to
escape and be saved. And that is not something others can give
you. It is the ultimate act of human compassion - a selfish effort
that drives us to salvation.
Clark D. Morphew
Posted For April 29, 2000