by James Webb
(Once again, I wrote a devotion for our church’s week of prayer. Once again I’m using it as my blog post for this week.)
“Father, I want those you have given me to be with me where I am, and to see my glory, the glory you have given me because you loved me before the creation of the world.” (John 17:24)
This morning the streets of Canterbury, in the early wind and rain, are almost deserted. It makes a nice change after the Christmas excess. Read more
Last week, I went shopping for orange juice. In Tesco’s they had a special offer, which I assumed had something to do with the fact that the four cartons of juice in front of me all had ‘Happy Christmas!’ written on them. The use-by date was the end of January. That was fine; we’d get it drunk by then. As I picked up the juice I noticed that behind it were all the newer, non-festive cartons. They were still on offer, but these ones had a use-by date for the end of February. Read more
I’m sitting in a cafe, with my notebook and pen, trying to come up with something for this week’s blog. I’ve got a hot chocolate in front of me, and I’m waiting for God to show up. Maybe He’s down the road, with the street preacher, whose muffled but earnest words drift in through the open window. I feel guilty. Why aren’t I out there, on the street, preaching instead of sitting here with an empty page and a hot chocolate? Mentally I list the reasons, both good and bad. I offer up a quick prayer for the young man trying to get something of God’s love out into the world.
I ask myself why I feel guilty. I wonder if it’s got something to do with my view of God. I imagine myself in one of those fairground mirror funhouses , but instead of rows and rows of mirrors distorting my image, I’m looking at dozens of distorted images of God. Is that what it’s like? I scribble that down.
Thoughts and ideas zoom through my imagination, like wasps at a summer picnic. I spend a moment wondering if Belgian chocolate is really that much better than other chocolate, or if it’s just a triumph of marketing. I go back to the funhouse mirrors, and wonder if the issue is not so much false views of God, but rather false views of myself. I picture my own distorted image instead. That’s just as much a source of misplaced guilt and confusion as distorted images of God.
I look at what I’ve written. I feel like there’s something in the funhouse mirror idea and that I’m on the cusp of putting together a blog post, but the idea just won’t firm up. It’s a mist that disperses when I try to grab it. I’m distracted by the couple on the table across from me. She’s reading out the titles of articles in her magazine, while her husband (I assume it’s her husband) listens mutely. One of the articles is wondering about the real reason behind JFK’s assassination. I wonder what magazine it is, as the couple don’t look like conspiracy theorists. Maybe that’s what they want me to think…
I try to get back to the blog post. I write some more thoughts down. How do we view ourselves in the mirror of guilt? How does that distort who we are? It’s not real. It’s not how God sees us. I pause. I feel like that’s something it would be good to pray for – that I’ll see myself as God sees me, as I really am. I would pray right here and now, but I’ve just decided that I’m going to write this process up as my blog post, and I know that I’d only be praying so that I could write it down and put it in the blog because actually praying reads better than just intending to pray.
I momentarily feel a genuine yearning for the freedom of being ‘disillusioned’, and seeing myself as I really am, and seeing God as He really is. I reflect, not for the first time in my life, that it’s not actually much fun being a deep thinker. But we’re all complicated in our own way, and we all make things more complicated than they need to be. God likes simple things, I write. I notice that I’ve actually written “God likes simple things, I write”. I decide to stop before I get too clever for my own good.
The hot chocolate is gone. The street preacher might still be there. It’s time for me to go. I think God probably did turn up, in some way.
We were in the supermarket to buy a pear for Imogen. She’d been asking for one all day, ever since she saw a picture of a pear in the morning and been reminded that they existed. There were no pears at home, so I found myself in a supermarket, a single pear in my hand, queuing up to pay.
And I felt embarrassed.
It had been a tough six days, on top of a tough six weeks, which had come off the back of a tough six years. I was tired, and had been worn down by the harsh reality of living and moving and having my being in this tainted world. We had returned to the UK from Australia just under a year ago, and were gearing up for our fourth house move in as many months. I had been wearied by the dehumanising journey of simply trying to secure a place for my family to live. I had spoken to countless robotic voices, and a fair few human ones, giving and taking various details. I had been dragged through the mill, weighed on the scales and been found wanting; judged by our absence from the country and by our inadequate income. Whenever I described our situation I encountered awkward pauses, credit checks and patronising explanations as to why we needed to jump through a dozen impersonal hoops. After all that suspicion and contempt, my embarrassment made perfect sense.
You see, there I was, surrounded by shoppers with bulging trolleys and heaving baskets, holding one pear. Do you understand? We were wasting their time, me and my pear. Me, the less than human, offering something that was barely worth their while to sell. What would be the response of the worker at the till? Mockery? Contempt? “One pear? Couldn’t you have at least bought two or three?” Would I even be worth any emotion? It’s a difficult thing to find yourself in a place where the best that you can hope for is to be ignored.
I was called forward to a till. An older man, not old, but older than me, with a scattering of awkward teeth left in his mouth, like Stonehenge after an earthquake. I prepared myself for the worst.
“Just one pear today,” I said, offering my feeble excuse to the God of the Till, hoping to stave off his wrath. If I make light of the situation perhaps I can escape with just a disdainful smile. I think I could handle that.
“Just one pear,” he repeated, but there was no judgement there.
I handed him the fruit. It was duly processed.
“Fifty-four pence, sir,” he said, without a trace of sarcasm.
Was that expensive for just one pear? I didn’t care, because he called me ‘sir’. Did you hear that? ‘Sir’! Me, with my solitary Forelle pear! Surely I did not deserve a ‘sir’, not for fifty-four pence, but it was given anyway.
Emboldened by this kindness, I passed over a five pound note.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, as though the tedium of having to count out four pounds and forty-six pence worth of change was a precious gift that I was passing on. How much effort would he have to expend for my pittance? How much of my fifty-four pence would make its way to his pocket? Surely none, and yet…”Thank you, sir,”
He passed over the handful of gold, silver and copper shrapnel. I received it as though I were receiving a communion wafer.
“There you go, sir. Would you like a bag?”
Nowadays you have to pay for the privilege of a bag, but not then. In those days, they were free. And he makes the offer. A free bag for my one pear! What generosity of spirit! What grace!
“No, thank you,” I said, smiling as I passed the fruit straight on to my delighted daughter.
No bag, but the gesture meant more to me than a thousand bags.
“Have a good afternoon,” I said. I meant it.
“You as well, sir,” he replied. He meant it too.
I swear to you, in all seriousness, there were tears in my eyes as I walked from that till-bound saint and out of that supermarket. Until that moment, I hadn’t realised just how bruised I was, and neither had I realised just how hungry I was for a little kindness.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened,” said Jesus, “and I will sell you a pear.”
This post won the 2016 Good Samaritan short story award with ACW and Street Pastors
