The Middleton

About a week ago, Monday, I was in Ohio relishing my last hours away from work before having the country roads take me home to the place I belong...Weeesssst Virgina (thanks to John Denver for a song I can joke about when I go home). It was a moment of melancholy as sat in the gazebo of a familiar park with a young lady I hadn't seen in ages. The clouds slurred behind the distant trees as I looked into her eyes, saying, "I don't know how much longer I can do this."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I don't know how much longer I can give everything I have to these unappreciative kids, knowing that they won't care, and understanding the negligible likelihood that any effectual change will take place in the time that I spend with them. I just don't know."

We sat there in silence. She looked at me, her eyes saying that she wished she had an answer for me--that she wished there was something she could say or do. I breathed deeply and leaned forward. The wind changed directions and I could feel the chill as the hair on my bared arm began to rise. My mind began racing, searching for an answer. How much longer could I give and give, seeing no fruit. My commitment to service was made indefinitely--that is, until such time as God would tell me to leave. Having no directive from God as to how long I should stay, could I, in good conscience, leave?

Again the question came. How long? How long can I give? How long can I expend all my time effort and energy to a cause that offers no fruit? Can I press on in relentless dedication to an uncertain goal entirely unattainable by my efforts alone? Can I continue to give my all in desperate hope that someday one or maybe two of these kids will see the sacrifice I've made, appreciate it, and bring about a change in their own lives?

And the lone answer I could reach was, I don't know. I don't know. Then I heard the voice of God calling to me, "but that's what I did." And every objection I could raise, and every uncertainty that could rise. One answer: "...but that's what I did." All I'd been able to think of was all that I do for the kids, but finally God was able to show me all that He's done for me.

God's victory enables ours.

Victory and Defeat, and Victory--
The past week has been one immeasurably taxing on all the faculties I possess spiritually, mentally, and physically. Preaching by day and working by night left little to no time for sleep. Nevertheless, God saw to it that victory was won. On Wednesday evening, as I was preaching about the resurrection of Christ and what it means for us, the Holy Spirit came down and lit a fire in my bones. As the excitement escalated and began running through my soul, I found myself preaching in blur, telling how Gabriel the angel just couldn't wait to get to the tomb on Sunday morning to open it up and call Jesus out. My excitement was contagious as I heard more of a collective response from the kids during the sermon than I had ever heard before. Soon, as I made the appeal and students stood to their feet, I felt the Spirit lead me to hold out just a little longer. I stopped and looked around the darkened room asking God who else needed to stand. Then I saw him. And then he stood.

After the service was over, I talked to him. He told me that as I had described the scene--all of heaven watching the events of passover and then Gabriel speeding his way through space to reach the tomb of Jesus--he had seen the most vivid picture of Jesus coming back to this earth, and as goose bumps spread across his body, he knew he wasn't ready. That night as we talked, he decided, through his tears, to make his calling and election sure--to go all in for Christ. Victory.

Two nights later I was in the same situation with a different boy. Different problems, different doubts. We talked for nearly an hour. I explained to him that his problem was that he was afraid to give complete control of his life to God. After what seemed like hours the spiritual warfare came to a flaming head. With all the energy I had left in me after working a week of sleepless nights and preaching 2 or 3 times a day, I pleaded with him again to pray the prayer and experience the peace. He turned and walked away. Defeat.

I fell to my knees in the chapel, having lost all strength and any comeliness I may have had, and I began to cry out to God to save this boy. I heard the outside door close and a ceaseless flood of tears began to flow. Earnestly I begged the Lord to bring him back. Helplessly I acknowledged that there was nothing more I could do. Then I heard footsteps. I thought perhaps it was the Chaplin of the school, and so I kept praying. Then I heard the voice of the boy asking me why I was crying. Through my tears I attempted to explain just how much God cares about him and how much it hurts for me to see him reject that love. Somehow, God moved his heart, and the boy asked me to help him pray. That night he gave control of his life to God. Victory.

. . .and Defeat. . .
On the final night of the evangelistic series I preached a message on the Apostle James' exhortation to be hearers of the word and not merely doers. God used the message to reach hearts, and as I made an appeal for all who had been impressed concerning what place in their lives they needed to make a commitment with God to stand, my heart was filled with joy to see so many standing. My eyes then fell upon the young man who had surrendered control of his life to Christ the previous night. He was seated, and he remained seated. Defeat.

. . .and Victory. . .
Later that evening I called the boy aside to see what was going on with him. That opened a whole new can of worms that I wasn't prepared to deal with. The adversary had been hard at work planting seeds of doubt in his heart. I responded to his initial issues, but his doubts would just not be altogether dispelled. As we talked, I felt led by the Spirit to bring the conversations to an end. I told him that he knew the peace that he had the night before when he had given total control of his life to God. I said that I was there that night because he didn't know how to gain the peace on his own. Now that he'd gained it, I wasn't needed. I told him that I'd be there if he ever wanted help, but ultimately that he could choose to have the peace whenever he wanted it.

That night as I prepared to sleep, I laid down on the bed and opened my Bible, seeking words of encouragement. I chuckled to myself as I turned the pages, realizing that is was the first time I'd slept in a bed all week long. My Bible opened to a passage where a piece of paper had been left, and I began to read of how King David made provisions for the work that he could not do in building the Temple. Instantly I was comforted to know that I was doing a work of preparation in the life of the boy, and that God would see to the completion of that work even if I would not personally see it. I then looked at the piece of paper and found it to be a note from a girl who had borrowed my Bible. She thanked me for doing all that I had done to make the evangelistic series and went so far as to call me an angel in disguise. I smiled as I read the words and then saw a scripture reference in the postscript. I turned there in the Bible and saw it was the words that Jesus says to the sheep on His right hand. The words that even now linger,"...inasmuch as you have done it to one of the least of these my brothers, you have done it unto me." Victory.

"God, why don't you just kill me?!" he shouted through his tears, "This isn't fair. Just kill me!"

The 16-year-old boy leaned in pain over the broken wheel barrel full of manure. He was tired by a chain of consequences for his own actions. He was the one who played instead of working. He was the one who put the prong of the pitchfork into the wheel barrel tire. And he was the one who now had to finish moving all the manure with the broken wheel barrel before he could eat supper. He had tried time and time again to pull it, but all his efforts were to no avail. More often than not, the wheel barrel would tip over and he'd have to begin his task again. Dragging the wheel barrel along was literally back-breaking work. His frustration led him to verbally express a desire to cease to be in the land of the living.

I called his name. I walked to where he was and looked into his tear-filled eyes. "Can you do this alone?" I asked.
"No! I can't!" He cried out.
"Then why don't you admit that you can't do it and ask for help?"
"Because I don't think anyone would help me."
"You'd be surprised if you asked."
He paused for a moment and then asked, "Would you help me?"

Without a word I took hold of the wheel barrel full of manure and dragged it to the far end of the garden. By the time I'd gotten there my back was asking me, "Why are you doing this? This isn't your problem." True. It wasn't my problem. But then again it was.

Seeing that I was doing all the work myself, and perhaps feeling a little guilty that he was doing nothing he said, "Maybe we can carry it." We returned again to the manure pile and filled it again. I took hold of the handles and he took hold of the wheel as we started towards the garden again. Within 25 paces he dropped his end and cried out, "I can't do this! It hurts too much."

Without a word I walked to the other side of the wheel barrel and picked up his side so he could have the lighter end of the load. Again, this time more swiftly, my back questioned, "Why are you doing this? This really isn't your problem!" Then my mind began to more clearly see what I was being Jesus and this boy was being me. Now I knew I couldn't quit, no matter the cost.

Time and time again we made the tedious trip to and from the garden. Each time my bodily agony grew stronger as my muscles grew weaker and my prayers for divine help grew more fervent. And then at last the final trip was made. I looked at my hands that had so eagerly awaited supper. They were covered in manure. My once clean jacket had fared even worse. My body ached, and I feebly attempted to straighten myself from the deformed posture to which I had accustomed myself.

The boy walked away to eat his supper, apparently unmoved by my act of benevolence. He never said thank you. I was tempted to feel outraged, but then I thought of the Son of God who came down from a kingdom of indescribable glory to help resolve a problem He didn't create. He endured all the abhorred, filthy elements of this world to save me. And after He'd carried my burden, and after He'd been covered in a different manure, I walked away unmoved by His act of benevolence. And I'm the one who didn't say thank you. The story repeats itself time and time again as I continue in sin, crucifying Christ afresh--putting Him to an open shame.

Walking away from the garden, I learned the lesson. I can only hope the boy did too.