BY JERRY D. NICKELL

CAME TO YOUR CHURCH TODAY. The cold wind seemed exceptionally penetrating as I shuffled through the neighborhood. I pulled my stained olive-drab jacket closer around me and wished for a warmer cap. Mostly I looked down, paying little attention to my surroundings. My body might be struggling with the elements, but my mind was somewhere else.

Mystery Visitor
I wasn't what I appeared to be. True, a change in fortune had forced me to live on the street, picking up aluminum cans to supplement any coins I might stumble upon. Jobs are hard to find when you live on the street—even with a postgraduate degree. Although others had resorted to trafficking in drugs, I had vowed never to get caught up in that lifestyle.

Today, for some reason, I decided to take a shortcut, venturing into a more affluent part of town. I was mildly surprised to see cars parked around your church, and, being rather curious, I wandered down and peered through the large glass doors.

Inside I saw people in fashionable clothes, smiling and greeting each other. I looked at my own clothes and saw the accumulated grime of many days without the benefit of soap. My insecurities and low self-worth quickly surfaced, and I would have walked away, except for the woman who had walked up behind me. The least I could do was to hold the door open for her.

She smiled.

Pulling the ragged hat off my tousled hair, I stepped into the warmth of the entryway. A middle-aged woman, obviously given the task of greeting, held out her hand to me.

"Are you a visitor here?" she inquired as I shook her hand.

I nearly laughed at the irony of it all. "Look at me," I wanted to say. "Do I look like one of you?" Instead I stammered, "Yes, I'm a visitor."

"Would you like to sign our visitor registration?" she asked as her eyes quickly assessed my outfit.

"I guess so," I responded, not fully comprehending why she would want me to register.

She carefully led me past several visiting members to where a woman was standing in front of a stack of cards. I was handed a pen, which I used to print my name. I had no permanent address to write down, and my name looked almost lonely on the card as I turned to walk away.

A large man in a gray suit came up on my right. He stuck out his hand, and when I grasped it he used it to guide me through the door into the sanctuary. "The program will start in about 30 seconds," he whispered. "Please have a seat."

As I walked through the door I had to stop to catch my breath. The sanctuary (is that what you call it?) was beautiful. Not awe-inspiring like a Catholic cathedral I had visited once, but modern and appealing. I walked halfway down the aisle and sank into a cushioned pew, noticing how well it was color-coordinated with the carpet. In front a grand piano sat off to the left, while in the center gleamed an organ, with chrome pipes prominently displayed like precious jewels.

The sanctuary was relatively large, but only a handful of mostly older people were there. I tried to concentrate on the program, but as one after another came to the front to speak, I found myself fighting to keep my eyes open. The monotone voice over the sound system, with the rhythmical snip, snip, snip of the fingernail clippers in the row behind me, lulled me to sleep like a lullaby. It wasn't until an older gentleman came to the front with a challenge to "increase the attendance at Sabbath school" that I woke up.

Now What?
People started getting up and leaving the room. I wondered if the program was over and waited for someone to tell me what was happening, but no one seemed to notice me. Finally I got to my feet and followed the older gentleman into a smaller room.

Questions for Personal Reflection or for Use in Your Small Group 1. When was the last time someone from the community "just dropped in" on one of your Sabbath services?  How did it make you feel? 2.  Just how much of a typical Sabbath school/worship experience at your church do you think is comprehensible to the uninitiated?  Is that enough? 3.  Who could the church members in this story have made the experience more meaningful to their visitor? 4.  What fears might the church members in the story have entertained when they was this person visiting their church?  How many of them were based on fact?

The chairs were laid out in a semicircle, with most of the seats taken. The few that were left were at the front on the side away from the door. As I sat down I noticed that I could now see most of the people—and they could see me.

But they wouldn't look at me.

Once I caught a gentleman staring at me—with a look that seemed almost to challenge my right to be there. I was used to that, but here in a church it caught me off guard. Perhaps I reminded him of someone he knew, someone whose heinous crimes would prevent attendance at such a holy place. Perhaps the others avoided me because I reminded them of a brother, a father, or a former friend. Maybe I was the cousin they could never relate to. Maybe I was that part of them they wanted to ignore and hide rather than face.

They called it Sabbath school, but I learned nothing. Nearly the entire time was spent using spiritual jargon to describe how Peter was before he betrayed Christ. I was almost embarrassed as I watched one person after another regurgitate what I quickly surmised were pat answers. Why didn't they spend some time talking about Peter's vision of the sheet let down? You know, the one during which he learned not to call anyone common or unclean?

Once again we were herded away, this time back into the sanctuary. I was surprised that it was filling up so fast. I had to go near the front to find a place to sit. I sat in an empty pew, and for the longest time it remained empty. When someone finally sat down he moved as far away from me as possible.

What I Heard
The music could be described only as heavenly. I had never heard of a trio made up of a piano, a cello, and a harmonica, but for a moment I was transported away—away from the questioning, curious, judgmental eyes. I still treasure those moments in my memory.

Wooden bowls were passed around, and I saw people putting money into them. I reached into my pocket, pulling out a few coins. The person on the other end of the pew slid the bowl across to me, and I put in all the money I had.

The pastor began preaching, and I quickly discovered an interesting fact: the audience would say amen only when the pastor asked for it. Some people caught on quicker than others and appeared almost to anticipate when he would ask "Amen?"

"Amen!"

I found myself shivering and looked around to see if others were cold. But they were pulling off their coats as I was clutching my ragged one around me.

 The sermon was good, and it seemed to inspire the members. I remember the pastor quoted the president of your church as saying, "At times it is better to be kind than right." I wondered if he knew what that meant to a homeless person.

Until We Meet Again
Then it was over. People began getting up, talking and laughing with friends. I slowly got up and walked out, alone. As I stopped at the drinking fountain for a last drink of water before turning to go, I felt your hand on my shoulder.

"I'm so glad you came today," you said. "Are you from around here?"

I'm sure my mouth was hanging open as I turned to look at you, dressed in a conservative but elegant manner. Although probably in your 60s, you would have passed for someone younger.

"No," I replied, noticing that you were actually looking at me—looking into my eyes. "I'm really just passing through."

"Well, if you ever come back," you said, "we'd love to have you worship with us again."

You smiled.

I pulled my battered hat over my unruly hair and headed out the door. You actually touched me—you reached out and touched me.

Maybe I'll be back.

"Inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these, . . . you did it to Me" (Matt. 25:40, NKJV).

_________________________
Jerry D. Nickell looks forward to his heavenly home. Until then he enjoys being with his family in God's country (eastern Oregon).