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Are
we relaxed this evening? Get comfortable. I want to share something that happened this week.
Bron doesn’t know I’m going to share this. I usually let
her know when something’s coming out.
We
raked leaves Friday. Worked all day getting them into piles.
Bought those paper bags to put them all in. I didn’t know
what our neighbors would think if leaves were left setting out
in front of the house. We worked hard to get it done for the
pickup. Then, with ten bags still sitting in the back yard, we
heard the truck coming up the street. Oh well. So we set our
sights on next week. The question was: What should we do with
the bags until then? If it rained, the bags would be a real
mess. So I moved all ten bags into the garage.
In
the morning, Bron commented that the garage was really
starting to smell. I told her it was just the fresh smells of
fall: dried leaves, spiced donuts, fresh cider. But this
morning I realized she was right. There’s a very earthy
smell in our garage, the smell of early compost. It is so
intense, it has permeated our vehicles.
I
say all this to draw us into the strong earthiness of life,
and to introduce a man I’ve come to
greatly respect—an international speaker, Professor
Emeritus of Sociology at Eastern College, an ordained
minister—Tony Campolo. In our antiseptic world, Tony
advocates a kind of “get your hands dirty” Christianity, a
strong earthiness in our walk of faith that permeates all we
are and do.
A
few years back, a speaking engagement took him from his home
in Pennsylvania to Honolulu, Hawaii. Hawaii is a beautiful
island, but you who travel know that the time difference can
be a killer. It makes 3:00 in the morning feel like 9:00. Not
only do you wake up way before dawn—ready to go while almost
everyone else is still asleep—you get hungry. You want
breakfast when most respectable people are in bed. An open
sign on a restaurant is a hard thing to find.
If
you’ve ever had your body clock flipped like that, you can
understand why Tony was wandering up and down the streets of
Honolulu at 3:00 in the morning, looking for a place to eat.
Up a side street he found a place that was still open, so he
went in and sat on one of the stools at the counter. It was
one of those sleazy places that deserves the name “greasy
spoon,” one of those places where you don’t want to touch
the menu, afraid of what might crawl out. But it was the only
place around.
It
didn’t take long for a big, heavy guy behind the counter to
ask, “What do ya want?”
“A
cup of coffee and a donut,” Tony replied.
In a lot of places they’d take a set of tongs or maybe pick up the
donut in a waxed tissue. We all know the reality is
that in the back room of a restaurant, they very well could
have fallen on the floor and been kicked around a bit. But to
see the fella wipe his hands on his smudged apron, turn around
and pick the donut up with his hand was a bit much. But
that’s the kind of place it was. After all, it was 3:30 in
the morning. So he sat there, munching his donut and sipping
his coffee.
Suddenly
the door swung open and in marched eight or nine…how could
we say?…you got it… prostitutes. It was a small place, so
they sat on the stool on either side. They were loud and
crude, and the only thing Tony wanted to do was to get out of
there. Then, in the midst of their conversations, the girl
sitting to one side said to the others: “Tomorrow’s my
birthday. I’m going to be 39.”
One
of her friends shot back: “So what do you want from me? A
birthday party? Ya want me to sing happy birthday or
something?”
“You don’t have to be mean,” she said. “I’ve never had a
birthday party in my life. Why should I have one now?”
Tony
just sat there, staring blankly ahead, listening. After
they had gone, he called over to the big guy: “Do they come
in here every night? The one next to me, does she come in
every night, too?”
“Yeah,
that’s Agnes. She comes in every night. Why do you want to
know?”
“I
heard her say that tomorrow is her birthday. What do you say
you and I do something about that? What do you think about
throwing a birthday party for her right here, tomorrow
night?”
A smile came across his chubby face. “I like it. What a great idea!”
He
called back to his wife in the kitchen: “Hey, Honey, come
out here. Tomorrow is Agnes’ birthday. This guy wants us to
go in with him and throw her a party, right here tomorrow
night. What do you think?”
It
was on. By the next evening Tony had arranged with
Harry (the guy behind the counter) to be there around 2:30. He
brought crepe-paper for the decorations and made a sign out of
two pieces of cardboard. It said simply: “Happy Birthday
Agnes.” Tony wanted to bring a cake, too, but Harry said
nothing doin’, the cake was his.
The
diner was decorated from one end to the other. And the woman
in the kitchen must have gotten the word out on the street,
because by 3:15 every prostitute in Honolulu was packed in the
place. It was wall to wall hookers and Tony.
At 3:30 on the dot, the door swung open and
in came Agnes and a friend. And everybody screamed “Happy
Birthday!” She was flabbergasted, stunned, so shaken that
her mouth just hung open and her friend had to grab her arm to
make sure she didn’t fall. Voices all around her began
singing, and her eyes began to moisten. When Harry carried out
the cake with all the candles, she just lost it. Tears ran
down her cheeks like a hard pouring rain, and her shoulders
heaved in sobs.
“Cut the cake, Agnes,” Harry called out.
“Everybody wants some.”
Agnes
just looked at the cake and, without taking her eyes off it,
she said: “Harry, do we have to cut it? I mean, if it’s
okay with you, can I keep the cake a little while?”
Harry
shrugged, not knowing what to say. “Sure! It’s okay. If
you want to keep the cake, keep the cake. Take it home if you
want to.”
“Can
I?” She looked at Tony. “I just live down the street. I
want to take the cake home. I’ll be right back. Honest.”
So, carrying her birthday cake like it was the Holy Grail, she
walked slowly down the street.
The room was motionless as the door closed. Everyone was caught in the
stunned silence. Not knowing what else to do, Tony broke the
silence. “What do you say we pray?”
It
must have been strange: a sociologist leading a prayer meeting
with a bunch of prostitutes, in a diner in Honolulu, at 3:30
in the morning. But sometimes prayer just seems like the right
thing to do. So he prayed for her. That her life would be
changed, and that God would be good to her.
When
he finished, Harry leaned over the counter and, not hiding his
hostility, said: “You never told me you were a preacher.
What kind of church do you belong to?”
With a smile, he answered: “I
belong to a church that throws birthday parties for whores at
3:30 in the morning.”
Harry
sneered: “No you don’t. There is no church like that.
If there was, I’d join it.”
Wouldn’t
we all? Wouldn’t we all join a church like that? But
that’s just the kind of church that Jesus talked about in
the New Testament as he ate with tax collectors and walked
with prostitutes. We see how time and time again he invited
people like Agnes to his party.
It’s
God’s Kingdom Party.
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