Last week I taught my evening class and left after almost everyone had left the church property. One last participant noticed someone walking around in the shadows, so I went over to check it out.
As I approached the figure in the shadow, he called out “Hi Randy”. I got closer, and recognized him. He was a young man I had talked with many times over the last few years–usually when he was drunk. The last time was last year and we had to call the police.
He was very apologetic. He said “I really want to talk with you, when I’m sober”. He seemed to mean it, and I told him I’d love to meet with him whenever he was ready. He promised me he’d contact me. He left. Then I left.
I was actually encouraged. Maybe this time I’ll actually get to talk with him. Maybe he’ll take advantage of the help offered. I thought “Maybe even tomorrow”.
Two days later he was found dead in a pond a 1/2 mile from the church building.
I was reminded of the harsh reality that tomorrow is a fiction. We all think we have plenty of time–and we think others will have that time also. But no tomorrow is promised to us. Tomorrow is a fiction. There is only today. Unless of course the Lord allows today to become tomorrow.
The problem is, we don’t know until, well, tomorrow.
And then there is the question of the callous. In the last 35 years as a minister, a police chaplain and a counselor, I have seen and experienced every sin and every result of sin I can think of. Like hands experiencing hard labor every day my emotions have felt raw, then firm, hardened–calloused. This isn’t all bad. If it hadn’t happened, I would not be able to function, and would not be able to help people who are hurting (how many of us want an ER doctor weeping at the pain he sees when he treats us?).
So when things like this happen, I am bothered, but I go on. I get over it. And usually fairly easily.
But not always.
This young man’s death is getting to me. Oh, I’ll be ok. My callouses aren’t all gone. But like the ones which build up on our hands they sometimes flake off, leaving us protected, but not entirely insensitive. Mine have kept me from being devastated, but allowed me to hurt.
Maybe that’s a good way to be.
I don’t want to stop hurting at the result of sin in the world.
I don’t want to not be outraged.
I don’t want to not hurt.
