The Mayberry Preacher

.....AND THE DONKEY STARTED TALKING

Numbers 22: 21-35
Steve Lindsley
November 15, 2009

I think it was a question on Trivial Pursuit one time when I was playing it with some friends: What are the two instances in the Bible where an animal speaks?  My partner and I came up with the first almost immediately – the snake in the garden, harassing Eve to take a tiny bite out of that most troubling, tempting apple.  But the second one?  Well, that stumped us.  The ox in Jesus' manger?    The pigs the Prodigal Son fed?  No matter how hard we tried, we just couldn't think of it.

They flipped the card over after we gave up for us to see the answer: Balaam's donkey, our scripture reading today.  It's a fascinating story, really.  And it tacks nicely onto our sermon last week, also from Numbers; the Israelites now in the Promised Land God set before them.  It takes close to a century for the people to settle down in their new home, and at some point they find themselves in an area called Moab with a king named Balak.  Everything seemed to be going according to plan – and then the donkey started talking.

Balak is kind of worried about this mass of new people, these Israelites, descending upon him.  Okay, he's more than “kind of worried” - he's terrified!  So as he prepares to go to battle he summons the services of a guy named Balaam – a "seer," a diviner – to cast a curse upon the Israelites so they'll lose.  The plot thickens, though, when Balaam has a dream from God the night before, telling him not to go. The king does not take kindly to Balaam's rejection, so the messengers return a second time, with a little added emphasis. Balaam is caught in the middle of a king who is insistent and a God who only wants God's will to be done, but he decides – he will do as the king asks.

The next day Balaam sets out on his faithful donkey.  And this is where our story really begins.  Lo and behold, an angel appears in the middle of the road right in front of them - an intimidating figure, with sword drawn. We don't usually think of angels as intimidating, but this one was. Now here's the real crux of the story: Balaam doesn't see him. Imagine that!  Balaam, the great diviner, the great "seer," misses the angel totally. You want to know what's even better?  His donkey sees it!  His donkey sees it perfectly!

So just imagine this for a minute.  Imagine the scene as the donkey stops, turns off the road and heads off into the field. Balaam is surprised at his donkey's odd behavior, so he gives it a good whack to try and steer it back on course. But no luck.

So now they're traveling among the vineyard off the road, with walls on either side of this wide path. Balaam's still confused about what just happened when the angel appears in front of them a second time - and again, the only one who sees him is the donkey. So the donkey rides up against one of the walls. You can see how this looked from Balaam's perspective – a wide corridor between vineyards, plenty of space, and yet the donkey is right up against the wall. He strikes it again.
They continue on as the corridor narrows until there's no room. And guess who makes another appearance? The angel stands once again in their way.  Balaam, still not seeing the angel, loses it and strikes the donkey over and over again. 

And then the donkey started talking!

Talking!  How about that?  He turns his head and looks up at Balaam and casually inquires as to what he has done to deserve such treatment.  Did I mention this is a donkey speaking??  The donkey probably assumes his master is seeing exactly what he sees; so the question – other than it's coming from a donkey! – is fairly reasonable.

Balaam answers his donkey – yet another element of humor in this story. He starts a conversation with an animal and tells him how frustrated he is at his behavior.  And that's when the donkey says: "Am I not your donkey, which you have ridden all your life to this day? Have I been in the habit of treating you this way?”  And Balaam thinks about if for a second and answers, “No.”

And right then is the point when Balaam's eyes are opened and when he's able to see for the first time the angel in their path.  And it all becomes clear to him – why his donkey was acting so erratically, why his agenda for the day was flawed from the beginning, why he needed to do the bidding not of a human king but of Yahweh.  That is when his mission, his purpose finally becomes clear to him.

A talking donkey.  Mr Ed in the Bible!  What will they think of next?  Actually, I've always kind of wondered if the donkey really talked, or if this is an example of embellishment to add spice and flavor to an otherwise drab story about a man caught in a conflict.  I'm sure the literalists would make their voices known; choosing to believe that if it's in the Bible it's got to be true.  Others would say that a talking donkey would never be possible given the anatomy of the Equus africanus asinus – the scientific name for donkey, if you're wondering; and yes I had to look it up.

But you know, the more I think about it more I'm not really sure that's the point here.  Whether the donkey talked or not is kind of irrelevant because this isn't some miracle story intended to “wow the crowds” into submission and compliance.  The important thing isn't that the donkey spoke – the important thing is what he said.

I mean, it's almost as if this four-legged creature is the voice behind Balaam's conscience, this inner conflict he's in.  I mean, think about it.  He wasn't totally sure he was doing the right thing.  And yet the end result of everything – after the angel in the road he couldn't see, after the donkey doing his thing – the end result is that the right course of action presented itself.  He didn't really know what was going on around him; he couldn't “see” the right thing to do.  And then the donkey started talking.

That's life, isn't it?  Sometimes we're cruising along, minding our business and doing what we think is right – and then the donkey starts talking.  Sometimes we make plans for things, and we like our plans and think they're good plans – and then the donkey starts talking.  Sometimes, as the commercial says, “life comes at you fast” - and we react the best we can, changing course on the fly and waiting for the wind to fill our sails again – and then the donkey starts talking.

Discernment is never easy.  Knowing the difference between right and wrong is one thing, but knowing the right “right” is a little harder to figure out.  I'm thinking about the story someone shared at our Bob Chilton Bible study this past week.  Three farmers are out in their fields one day tending to the crops. They each look up in the sky and see two large clouds forming an unmistakable letter “G” and letter “P.”  Each pauses to contemplate.  The first wipes his brow and goes back to work – the letters, obviously, were telling him to Go Plow.  The second leaves the fields, grabs a bat and ball and heads over to the community softball game.  He was only doing what God told him to do: Go Play.  And the third farmer grabs his Bible and heads to the busy street corner in town, where he shares his testimony and how he gave his life to Jesus.  Because that's what you do when the clouds themselves direct you to Go Preach.

The question, of course, is which farmer made the correct discernment?  Or is it possible that they all were right?  So how do you read the clouds?  What's your “talking donkey” moment?  What is the “trigger” that helps you discern God's will for your life?

See, I don't know about you, but I keep going back to what that donkey said to Balaam the moment right before his eyes were opened: Have I ever treated you this way before?  In other words: don't you trust me?  You know, we base our relationships with other people on lots of things - love, work, this church, common interests. But all of them are meaningless unless some element of trust is present. Think about it. You've got to trust in another person if you're going to feel empowered to express love for them. You've got to trust that they're not going to abuse that relationship.   And ultimately, you've got to trust that they will reciprocate your love with love, or your friendship with friendship, or sharing your life with them sharing their own.

That same trust plays a huge part in our relationship with God.  Because God, like the angel, is not someone we can physically see or hear, and that makes things difficult.  I am reminded of a story I heard several years ago, a story I believe I've shared from this pulpit before. It's about man and a terrible rain storm that came one season. It had been raining for days, raining buckets - the waters were beginning to rise in the low areas.  Kind of like this past week!  Neighbors would drive by this man's house, their trucks loaded with prized possessions as they sought higher ground. They'd invite him to come along, to escape the rising waters. "No," he would reply, "I'm staying here." They'd asked him why he would stay and put himself at risk. And he'd always reply, "Because God will take care of me."

The waters continued to rise, up to the level of his front porch. Some local authorities coasted by in a small motorboat. "Come with us," they called out through the rain," it's getting dangerous here." His answer was more emphatic. “No – I will not go. I'm staying here because I believe God will save me."

The waters rose higher and higher, until it engulfed his entire house with only the pinnacle of the roof visible. And there the man sat, as threatening waters inched closer.  A helicopter flew overhead, lights flashing, megaphone screaming, "Sir, "you must come with us now! There isn't any time!" And at the top of his lungs the man defies them, saying, "NO! I will stay here. God will save me! "   

The rains never stopped, and those words turned out to be his last. He went to heaven, and came before God. He was quite puzzled to say the least! When he finally got up the nerve he asked God why God did not save him as he believed. Shouldn't his strong faith have been rewarded?  Shouldn't his trust have amounted to something?  To which God replied, "What are you talking about?  I sent you a truck, a boat and a helicopter. What more did you want?!?"

Sometimes it is hard to see God moving in and around us.  But let us never doubt for a second that God does.  Sometimes it is hard to see God in action in our lives, especially when we encounter hardship.  But let us never doubt that God is there with us every step of the way.  And sometimes it is so hard to get a sense of what God wants from us – as individuals, as this church, as this community and this world.  But let us never, ever doubt that God continues to speak to you and me in the community of faith, in the wisdom and guidance of friends and family, and yes, even in donkeys we've known for years who've never failed us, who start talking.

You know what this means, don't you?  It means that any moment – especially when we least expect it – becomes a moment when God can speak to us.  And what we have to do is keep our eyes open - and, most importantly, learn how to trust.  A few Christmases ago my wife presented me with a book called  Small Miracles: Extraordinary Coincidences from Everyday Life. I thought of Balaam and his donkey when I read the following from the book's preface. Listen:

Thousands of years ago, God spoke to man through the sublime miracles he performed on massive and grandiose scales. In modern times, we are bereft of that privilege. Today we wrestle with a God who no longer parts seas, stops the sun, or turns people into pillars of salt. Instead we have coincidences - smaller, more personal, everyday miracles. For when one of these takes place, it is nothing more and nothing less than God tapping us on the shoulder, whispering, or at times even shouting: "I'm here! I'm with you!"

   
Nothing seems clear, and then the donkey starts talking.  Let us keep our eyes open; let us keep our ears in tune. And more than anything else, let us trust. We might be surprised at what that'll bring us.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

EGYPT WAS BETTER THAN THIS!

Numbers 13: 1-2, 17-20, 25-28, 30-33, 14: 1-4
Steve Lindsley
November 8, 2009

They said it to each other with shouts of unbridled joy as they joined the caravan, leaving behind a generation of forced labor and slavery, leaving behind years and years of Pharaoh's empire built squarely on their hunched backs.  Their feet and legs were still caked with the mud used to make all those bricks.  They said it as they looked off into the horizon, the sun shining on a new day; visions of a land flowing with milk and honey, the Promised Land, dancing in their heads.  They turned to their neighbors and said it over and over again, almost singing it so the children could join in: We're not in Egypt anymore!

They said it as they moved quickly across the dry riverbed of the Red Sea, its waters parted to the side and reaching to the heavens.  They carried their load across the shifting sand, their eyes ever-present on the man of the hour in the distance, standing on a rock ledge overlooking the waters, staff in hand, arms outstretched.  They spurted it out in gasps, practically running so as to avoid the approaching Pharaoh army, thirsty for vengeance.  They said it to each other as a testimony to the continued wonder of a God actively involved in their liberation; a God forever leading them to this Promised Land: At least we're not in Egypt anymore!

They said it at the foot of the huge mountain; their temporary home for a few years.  They thought it in their heads as they quietly pondered the whereabouts of their fearless leader; the man who years before led the charge to freedom.  Moses had gone up on that mountain close to a month ago for a one-on-one with Yahweh himself.  No sign of him since.  So they were in hover mode; waiting for the next step to unveil itself, waiting for that land flowing with milk and honey to be theirs.  Kind of unsettling, kind of unnerving, but still, still they looked at each other and agreed: At least we're not in Egypt anymore!

And now, a generation later, they have arrived!  They stand at the doorstep of their new life in the place Moses spoke of 40 years before; the sacred place God had promised them.  The land flowing with milk and honey is within view, and it is lovely; in the same way a newborn child is the most beautiful baby you've ever seen. They are most certainly “not in Egypt anymore;” all that hardship and distress a distant memory.  All their waiting, all their suffering, all their journeying, now complete.

So they send spies into the new land to scout it out.  They return after forty days and they give their report: the land is indeed flowing with milk and honey!  But it is also flowing with..... lots of other people.  And these people live in large cities, and they are well-fortified with huge walls around them.  In fact, the people themselves are huge; giants, practically.  Taller and stronger than any of us.  Did we mention there were a lot of them, and that they were huge?

They said it as they looked at each other, the collective spark in their eyes long gone. They said it as they dealt with the sinking feeling in their stomachs and the fear of dashed dreams and hopes.  They said it: You know, Egypt wasn't really that bad.  Egypt was better than this!  We would've been better off if we had died somewhere along the way.  In fact, we'd be better off if we'd never left.  Those mudpits weren't that hard, ya know?  Good exercise, fresh air.  All that manual labor made us strong – who cares if it was forced upon us?  They just wanted us to stay busy.  We ought to go back – I wonder if they'd take us?  Pharaoh probably needs another pyramid.  Egypt wasn't all that bad.  Egypt was better than this!

It wasn't the first time the Israelites had pined for a return to the “comforts of Egypt.” Complaining had been as much a part of the journey as walking.  When they were thirsty with no water in sight: Egypt was better than this!  When they hadn't eaten in days: Egypt was better than this!  When the manna God provided for their empty stomachs got boring: Egypt was better than this! 

But they never really meant it, did they?  They were just frustrated, tired from the journey, their sandals and their patience worn paper thin.  Sometimes the Promised Land seemed so far in the distance that it was like a mirage in the desert.  But now – now it is real!  Now it is right in front of them!  They are on the cusp of embracing the wonderful gift spoken to them generations before!  They are mere steps away from setting foot on holy, promised ground!

You know, Egypt wasn't all that bad.  Egypt was better than this!

The story as told to us in the book of Numbers, as read to us by Derek, is comic relief and telling moment at the same time.  And the inevitable question it raises is this: why would these people, after their long journey, after all they'd be through, why would they even entertain the thought of going back to Egypt??  Was it really the “giants” the scouts saw, the large cities, the Anakites or the supposed Nephilim, kind of mythical creatures that were probably the creation of an over-active imagination under duress?  Were these things what led the Hebrews to seriously consider making a “U-turn” and embrace bondage, slavery and tyranny all over again?  After nearly forty years of the journey, after deaths and insurrections and hunger and thirst, after  wondering on more than one occasion if the so-called Promised Land even existed – is this really what they want to do?  Just walk away?

Of course, you and I have the beauty of hindsight here, and we know that the Hebrews did not turn back.  But still – still, for that moment, for that instant, there was the possibility.  And you know,  I'm not sure what would've made their ancestors – the ones who died in Egypt and the ones who died along the journey – I'm not sure what would've made them roll over in their graves more: knowing that their descendants gave thought to turning away from the Promised Land, or knowing that they would do something completely crazy like romanticize Egypt.

See, time sometimes has a way of changing our human perception on things, doesn't it?  It's that old adage: the grass is always greener on the other side.  Forty years of wandering in the desert apparently led some Israelites to forget why they wanted so desperately to leave Egypt in the first place; why their predecessors had begged and pleaded to God for a deliverer.  Time has a way of twisting our memories, or even rewriting them, so to make us think that the bad times really weren't that bad.

Maybe that's what happened to the Israelites.  Maybe their current disappointment caused some sort of temporary amnesia, not remembering how bad Egypt had been.   And maybe as they stood there at the doorstep of the Promised Land, the idealized home they had dreamed of for generations, maybe they were demoralized by the fact that that the “land flowing with milk and honey” was not quite what they had made it out to be.  Maybe that's what led them to cry out: Egypt was better than this!

Which means you and I should probably cut them a whole lot of slack  I mean, it's not like we aren't tempted to do the same thing with our past, with our present, with our future.  We're quite good at romanticizing Egypt ourselves, thank you very much.  A few years ago author Stephanie Coontz said something profound in a book of hers.  Listen:

The actual complexity of our history – even of our own personal experience – gets buried under the weight of an idealized image.  When things are going well, we credit our successful adherence to the ideal, forgetting the conflicts, ambivalence, and departures from the “norm.”  When things are going poorly, we look for the “dysfunctional” elements of life, blaming our problems on “abnormal” experiences.

(from The Way We Never Were: American Families and the Nostalgia Trap by Stephanie Coontz, 1992, pgs. 1-2)

The title of her book, I think, is most appropriate: The Way We Never Were: American Families and the Nostalgia Trap.  You know what she's talking about – how we have a tendency to refer to “the good old days” that, to be truthful, probably weren't as good as we remember them being.  It's this “nostalgia trap” that we've grown attached to, rather than what was actually there.  And when we do this sort of thing, Egypt does look a whole lot better – even if the Promised Land is right in front of us.   When we pine for days gone by, and expect those days to return, we don't fully focus on the days we're living right now and how we are called to live in them.

Don't we do the same thing?  Don't we struggle a bit when Camelot isn't as “camelot-y” as we remember it being, as we think it should be?  We don't have to look too far to see this, you know.  One week ago on this very day, four young men were gunned down in our quaint little town in the city's worst homicide on record.  It not only made regional news but national too; appearing on CNN.  In that regard it wasn't unlike any similar sad story that we read about in our daily newspaper or email inboxes.  Except this one came with a not-so-subtle subtext, mostly from the out-of-town press that descended: calling this incident a black eye on the “Mayberry image,” something that would “make Aunt Bea blush,” something “requiring Barney's services.”  Two narratives colliding with each other: one, a nostalgic television show where problems are solved in half an hour; and the other; the ugly realities of violence that confront towns of any size, all over the country, all over the world. 

These two things don't mesh with each other.  They never can.  We cannot embrace the Promised Land if we're still talking about how great Egypt was.  We cannot confront the real problems in this world – problems that God calls us to confront – if we choose to believe that all the answers, all the solutions lie somewhere in our past; somewhere we can never go to. 

So imagine, my friends: imagine that it is not those Hebrews there but us.  God has called us, in our day and time, to make our way into the Promised Land.  Except this Promised Land is not actual land.  It's something more wonderful and hopeful – working to bring about God's kingdom here on earth.  It is a place where:

the wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid,
the calf and the lion and the fatling together,
(Isaiah 11:6)

A place where:

God will dwell with the people, and wipe away every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more, mourning and crying and pain will be no more.
(Revelation 21: 3b-4)

That's what our Promised Land looks like.  It is wonderful, beautiful, flowing with milk and honey.  But it is not perfect – not yet.  And if we want, we can succumb to the nostalgia trap, join with our Israelite brothers and sisters in reciting the tired-old mantra: Egypt was better than this!  But if we do that, we're not living into the kingdom.  We can choose to operate within the confines of our expectations and our dreams instead of choosing to live into God's – but if we do, we're not living into the kingdom.  We can ignore or trivialize the challenges we face, like the billions in our world who live on a dollar a day, or instances where people are not treated with basic human rights, or even violence that explodes in a small town.  But if we choose that, we're not living into the kingdom. 

We can also choose something different.  We can do what those Hebrews eventually did, which was to put one foot in front of the other, stepping right into the fear and uncertainty and unknown that is the Promised Land. We can press on, despite what we see and hear around us, into the loving presence of our God.  We can embrace both the good and the bad among us for what it is; putting our full trust in a God who never reneges on promises made, even when those promises don't look like we imagined them. 

And when we do this, my friends, we are one step closer to the kingdom, one moment nearer to the promise.  Thankfully – mercifully – Egypt was never better.  Thankfully, God's promise to us always is.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

KEEP THE BLESSINGS FROM GOING STALE

Numbers 11: 1-15
Steve Lindsley
November 30, 2008

The story is told at just about every Thanksgiving.  If I had my way, the story would seep into the recesses of the family's collective consciousness, tucked away in some distant corner of the mind where it would be conveniently forgotten. But that never seems to happen.  So just about every Thanksgiving it is dragged out once more for consumption, like grandma's nutty fruitcake.

The story, as it goes, has me around two or three years old, depending on the year it's being told.  We are at my grandmother's house in Asheville – my mother's mom – for the Thanksgiving feast.  The dining room is small but we've pulled together a few tables and draped them with one large table cloth.  There are a dozen or so of us there, and the food – which had been in the works for days – is strewn out all over the table in the finest of silver.  Even at my young age, I know this is a masterpiece before me.

We all take our seats, and my great grandfather – G.G., we used to call him – G.G. asks for us to bow our head as he returns thanks.  And return thanks he did.  It may not surprise you to know that someone related to me bore a tendency to talk for long periods of time.  The story is that G.G. went on with his prayer for at least five minutes; and that the more he blessed the food, the more I wanted to be eating it.  And at some point when my patience had been fully exhausted, I blurted out in a loud voice, “Amen, G.G., Amen!”

Oh man, do they love telling this story!  I honestly don't remember it, but I don't have to, really, because my family has yet to forget it.  But can you really blame a toddler with the full Thanksgiving spread before him?  I wasn't as interested in giving thanks for those wonderful blessings, as I was interested in sinking my teeth into them!

It's easy to be thankful and grateful for God's blessings when they're right in front of us.  But it is harder to be in tune with those blessings when they seem so far away.  And I think that's the problem the Israelites kept running into, you know?  There they were, somewhere out in the desert, trying to find their way to this “Promised Land.”  God had rescued them from bondage in Egypt and gave them Moses to guide them to a “land flowing with milk and honey.”  A land of promise and hope, where they could be a nation forever.

But the journey to that land was not an easy one; and it didn't take long before they started having second thoughts.  The grass is always greener on the other side, you know.  It got harder for God's people to “count their blessings.”  And they started longing for their thanksgiving feasts of old:

If only we had meat to eat!  We remember the fish we used to eat in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic; but now our strength is dried up, and there is nothing at all but this manna to look at.

That “manna,” by the way, was some kind of flaky substance that would appear on the ground every morning.  The story goes that God provided the manna for them every day as food for the journey.   And before we give them a hard time for not being so gracious, it wasn't like this stuff was some delicacy.  Some scholars believe it might have been a bug secretion they were eating,  but no one really knows.  In fact, the word “manna” itself actually means, “What is it??” - which is undoubtedly what the Israelites would think to themselves as they shoved some of it into their mouth. 

As Holly Mills so eloquently put it in her sermon last week, “It is easy for people to think that they've got it so hard.”  That's what those Israelites were doing as they made their way from Egypt to the Promised Land.  They let this view of their past – a past that was undoubtedly not as romantic as they made it out to be – they let that view of their past cloud their present.  And because of that, they failed to see the blessings right before them, even if it was in the form of some flaky bug secretion.

But none of their “ungraciousness” changed the fact that God provided for God's people.  God blessed them every day of the journey, whether they chose to receive it or not.  Whether they chose to yell out “Amen, G.G., Amen!” and get on with it, or whether they recognized the many ways God worked through them, every day of their lives.  It made no difference – God blessed them every time the Israelites gathered together for a meal.

That same blessing continues to this very day.  Mealtime is a sacred place for returning thanks, for receiving God's blessings with grateful hearts, and being nourished for the journey.  It's not just about human survival – it's about fellowship, too.  Last week we as a congregation shared in a wonderful Thanksgiving feast in our Fellowship Hall.  Today we will share another kind of meal – a meal that Jesus once had with his disciples as part of the Jewish Passover, a meal of deep meaning about that time in Egypt when God provided for God's people, and how Jesus took that meal and made it extraordinary.

Now I don't know about you, but I personally have a hard time “explaining” communion to someone.  It's kind of like watching your child being born – you can give the “play-by-play,” but the real significance, the real essence is very hard to capture in words.  That's why I'm big on the stories of communion, rather than the science of it.  I think communion – mealtime with God and each other – comes alive when we tell the stories. 

I asked you all for your communion stories, and I got some wonderful ones.  One church member shared with me about the time he was at a youth conference in D.C.  His small group decided to celebrate communion on Friday evening at the National Mall.  They all sat in a circle, and the minister passed the bread and the cup of grape juice around.  Everyone served the person next to them.  And what made it memorable for him was not the process of presenting each other the bread and wine, but “the sense of fellowship among a group of people who six days earlier were complete strangers.”  Times like these remind us that communion is not just an “act” but something that has life to it (as told by Dave Petri).

Another member recalled a time when his preschool-aged daughter decided she wanted to receive communion for the first time.  She ate the bread and got a smile on her face (incidentally, the same smile that shows up on my boys' faces when they eat what they affectionally refer to as “Mrs. Jane's bread.”).  And after this little girl drank the juice, she proceeded to smack her lips and give out a sigh that everyone heard.  And why not!  God's blessings certainly are good enough to deserve a little lip-smacking every now and then (as told by Bob Chilton).

The point is that amazing things can happen when we gather together for a meal and graciously receive God's blessings.  Because if communion is about anything, it is about how God takes the ordinary among us – some bread and some wine or juice – and makes it extraordinary.  And communion, at least in a spiritual sense, doesn't have to be limited to a thanksgiving feast or a sacrament in church.  God's meal and God's blessings can take place anywhere, anytime.

I will forever carry with me a story told by Presbyterian minister and author Fred Craddock about a communion meal he once experienced.  This is his story:

I gave a weekend lecture in mid-October at the University of Winnipeg in Canada.  As we left Friday night after the first lecture, it started snowing.  I was surprised, and my host was surprised because he had written, “It’s too early for the cold weather, but you might bring a little windbreaker, a little light jacket.” 

The next morning when I woke up in my hotel room, two or three feet of snow pressed against the door.  The phone rang, and my host said, “We’re all surprised by this.  In fact, I can’t come and take you to breakfast, the lecture this morning has been cancelled, and the airport is closed.  If you can make your way down the block, there's a little bus depot, and it has a café.  I’m real sorry.”  I put on that light jacket and a small cap, but I was still freezing, and I hadn't left the hotel room.  I went into the bathroom and unrolled long sheets of toilet paper and made a nest in the cap so that it would protect my head against that icy wind.

I went outside, shivering.  The wind was cold, the snow was deep.  I slid and bumped and finally made it down to the bus station.  Every stranded traveler in western Canada was there, strangers to each other and to me, pressing and pushing and loud.  I finally found a place to sit, and after a lengthy time a man in a greasy apron came and said, “Whadya want?”  I said, “May I see a menu?” He said, “What do you want a menu for?  We have soup.”  I said, “What kind of soup do you have?”  And he said, “Soup soup.  You want some?”  I said okay.

He brought the soup, and I put the spoon to it.  It was awful.  It was kind of gray looking; it was so bad I couldn’t eat it, but I sat there and put my hands around it.  It was warm, and so I sat there with my head down, my head wrapped in toilet paper, bemoaning and beweeping my outcast state with the horrible soup. 

The door opened again.  The wind was icy, and somebody yelled, “Close the door!”  In came this woman clutching her little coat.  She found a place not far from me.  The greasy apron came and asked, “Whadya want?”  She said, “A glass of water.”  He brought her a glass of water, took out his tablet and said, “Now whadya want?”  She said, “Just the water.”  He said, “You have to order something, lady.”  She replied, “Well, I don't have any money; I just want a glass of water, and some time to get warm.”  He said, “Look.  I have customers that pay – what do you think this is, a church or something?  If you’re not going to order, you’ve got to leave!”  And he got real loud about it, so that everyone could hear him.

So she got up to leave.  And then an amazing thing happened.  Almost as if rehearsed, everyone in that café got up and headed to the door.  If she was going to have to leave, they were leaving as well.  And the man in the greasy apron saw this happening and blurted out, “All right, all right, she can stay.”  Everyone sat down, and he brought her a bowl of soup.

I said to the person sitting next to me, “Who is she?”  He said, “I’ve never seen her before.” The place grew quiet, but I heard the sipping of that awful soup.  I said, “You know, I’m going to try that soup again.”  I put my spoon to the soup – you know, it wasn't bad soup.  Everybody was eating this soup.  I started eating the soup, and it was pretty good soup.  I have no idea what kind of soup it was; I don’t know what was in it.  But I do recall that when I was eating it, it tasted a little bit like bread and wine.  Just a little bit like bread and wine (a story told by Fred Craddock, from Craddock Stories).

Amen, G.G., Amen.  And thanks be to God.