The past year and a half, God has challenged me to this place of seeing the people in my life as His sons and daughters. He’s let me taste the revelation that He created every person; and that He takes it personally how I treat His sons and daughters. I love those moments when I can look at a person and feel the Father’s overwhelming love and affection for them. But, I would be lying if I said that was always the case. More than once, I have heard His strong and uncompromising words, “that is my son,” reminding me to see them as He sees them.
Australia has certainly tested me in this. The first Sunday that I walked into the church for homeless, Aboriginal people, I was not compelled to love. Love didn’t come naturally as it did in Thailand or Cambodia.
Today, Sage and I dragged our suitcases several blocks to the bus stop in the rain (did I mention it’s wet season in Australia). Walking past several Aboriginal people in a drunken dispute, I scarcely missed having my head taken off by a half full beer can. Finally we made it to the bus stop…just as the bus pulled off. Not to worry, there was a divine encounter in line. An Aboriginal man, that looked to be about 60, walked up. He was, in every way, unappealing to the senses. He was barefoot and wearing dirty clothes. I’m not sure how to describe the stench that resonated around him. His beard was several inches. Bodily fluid ran from his nose and mouth, collected in his beard, and slowly leaked from his beard to his clothes or to the ground below. He was missing most of his teeth. Nothing was attractive about this man. Slightly annoyed that we just missed the bus and feeling exhausted, I simply wanted to get to my next destination. I tried to smile, be agreeable and attempt some conversation, but in short, I wrote this man off. What was I going to say to this drunk, homeless man? Honestly, he wasn’t even making sense as we conversed with him. What’s the point in even trying to talk to him or love him? Sage continued to talk to him, as I tried to doze, face in my hands.
Some minutes later, I looked at him again. I was trying desperately to see God in this man. I believe you can find a piece of God in every person. Often, this requires looking deeper than what presents at the surface. I strained to look beneath the external factors and to see this man as God’s creation; as a son of the King. I didn’t see it easily, but I still knew it was the truth.
Dismissing the fact that he may or may not be able to understand, I asked him if he knew Jesus. He said yes, which launched us into a semi-coherent conversation about us being brothers and sisters and loving each other regardless of our skin. He kept saying you’re my sister; I’m black, you’re white; I love you. Still unconcerned whether he did or did not understood, I asked him what he wanted in life. I didn’t get much answer there. Finally, I asked if we could pray for him. He said yes and he came and sat next to me on the bench. Trying to ignore the smell, the dirt and the dampness of his shirt, I laid my hands on him, and we prayed. Sage declared things over him in her bold, prophetic voice. I spoke things over him in my gentle authority. The moments that followed were precious. As we prayed the love of God over Him, spoke truth and broke chains, tears began to roll down this man’s face. I’m not sure exactly what was happening in him, but I know the Holy Spirit was invading his life. We continued to pray for about 5 minutes. The bus rolled up as we spoke our last blessings over him. I’m not sure what he felt or saw, but I know that he will never again be the same. And I know that I will never forget Mr. Bruce.
As I got on the bus, I was a little wrecked from the entire experience. I continued to ask God to encounter Bruce. As much as I wanted to just rest in the arms of my Father, I wanted His arms to surround Bruce so much more.
To think I almost wrote Bruce off as a drunk who wasn’t coherent enough to comprehend our conversation. How often I miss those moments. I looked around at each person on the bus. All so unique. All at different places in life; yet, God is always speaking. He is saying something to every person on that bus. How I long to live in a place of always speaking what He is speaking to those around me. How desperate I am to be fully aware of Him in every moment. And to do exactly what He is doing; say exactly what He is saying…and bring Heaven to earth.
Thinking back on the day, I remembered the parable of the Good Samaritan (Lk 10:25). Bruce was that man that fell among thieves, who stripped him, wounded him and left him half dead. All of society looks down on him. He has been robbed spiritually. People look at him as worthless. I expect it’s rare that someone talks to him, much less touches him. More often than not, I cross to the “other side of the road” and avoid the Bruces in the world. Or I’m too busy with what I’m doing to stop and listen to what God’s saying. I never want to be someone that doesn’t stop for the one in front of me. I want His eyes. I want His compassion.
