by Max Lucado
Graphic, this thought of the Good Shepherd stepping through the flock of humanity. You. Me. Our parents and kids. “Max, go this way.” “Ronaldo, over there.” “Maria, this side.”
How can one envision this moment without the sudden appearance of this urgent question: What determines his choice? How does Jesus separate the people?
Jesus gives the answer. Those on the right, the sheep, will be those who fed him when he was hungry, brought him water when he was thirsty, gave him lodging when he was lonely, clothing when he was naked, and comfort when he was sick or imprisoned. The sign of the saved is their concern for those in need. Compassion does not save them—or us. Salvation is the work of Christ. Compassion is the consequence of salvation.
The sheep will react with a sincere question: When? When did we feed, visit, clothe, or comfort you? (vv. 34–39).
Jesus’ answer will sound something like this: “Remember when you got off the subway? It was a wintry Washington morning. Commuters were bundled and busy and focused on their work. You were, too, mind you. But then you saw me. Yes, that was me! Standing between the coffee kiosk and the newsstand—that was me. I was wearing a baseball cap and a scarf and playing a fiddle. The mob rushed past as if I were a plastic plant. But you stopped. I knew you were busy. You looked at your watch twice. But still you stopped and remembered me. You stepped over to the coffee stand, bought me a cup, and brought it over. I want you to know I never forgot that.”
Jesus will recount, one by one, all the acts of kindness. Every deed done to improve the lot of another person. Even the small ones. In fact, they all seem small. Giving water. Offering food. Sharing clothing. As Chrysostom pointed out, “We do not hear, ‘I was sick and you healed me,’ or ‘I was in prison and you liberated me.’”2 The works of mercy are simple deeds. And yet in these simple deeds, we serve Jesus. Astounding, this truth: we serve Christ by serving needy people.
The Jerusalem church understood this. How else can we explain their explosion across the world? We’ve only considered a handful of their stories. What began on Pentecost with the 120 disciples spilled into every corner of the world. Antioch. Corinth. Ephesus. Rome. The book of Acts, unlike other New Testament books, has no conclusion. That’s because the work has not been finished.
Many years ago I heard a woman discuss this work. She visited a Catholic church in downtown Miami, Florida, in 1979. The small sanctuary overflowed with people. I was surprised. The event wasn’t publicized. I happened to hear of the noon-hour presentation through a friend. I was living only a few blocks from the church. I showed up a few minutes early in hopes of a front-row seat. I should have arrived two hours early. People packed every pew and aisle. Some sat in windowsills. I found a spot against the back wall and waited. I don’t know if the air-conditioning was broken or nonexistent, but the windows were open, and the south coast air was stuffy. The audience was chatty and restless. Yet when she entered the room, all stirring stopped.
No music. No long introduction. No fanfare from any public officials. No entourage. Just three, maybe four, younger versions of herself, the local priest, and her.
The father issued a brief word of welcome and told a joke about placing a milk crate behind the lectern so we could see his guest. He wasn’t kidding. He positioned it, and she stepped up, and those blue eyes looked out at us. What a face. Vertical lines chiseled around her mouth. Her nose, larger than most women would prefer. Thin lips, as if drawn with a pencil, and a smile naked of pretense.
She wore her characteristic white Indian sari with a blue border that represented the Missionaries of Charity, the order she had founded in 1950. Her sixty-nine years had bent her already small frame. But there was nothing small about Mother Teresa’s presence.
“Give me your unborn children,” she offered. (Opening words or just the ones I remember most? I don’t know.) “Don’t abort them. If you cannot raise them, I will. They are precious to God.”
Who would have ever pegged this slight Albanian woman as a change agent? Born in a cauldron of ethnic strife, the Balkans. Shy and introverted as a child. Of fragile health. One of three children. Daughter of a generous but unremarkable businessman. Yet somewhere along her journey, she became convinced that Jesus walked in the “distressing disguise of the poor,” and she set out to love him by loving them. In 1989 she told a reporter that her Missionaries had picked up around fifty-four thousand people from the streets of Calcutta and that twenty-three thousand or so had died in their care.3
I wonder if God creates people like Mother Teresa so he can prove his point: “See, you can do something on your life’s journey that will outlive you.”
There are several billion reasons to consider his challenge. Some of them live in your neighborhood; others live in jungles you can’t find and have names you can’t pronounce. Some of them play in cardboard slums or sell sex on a busy street. Some of them walk three hours for water or wait all day for a shot of penicillin. Some of them brought their woes on themselves, and others inherited the mess from their parents.
None of us can help everyone. But all of us can help someone. And when we help them, we serve Jesus.
Who would want to miss a chance to do that?
Then the King will say to those on his right, “Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the Kingdom prepared for you from the creation of the world. For I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home. I was naked, and you gave me clothing. I was sick, and you cared for me. I was in prison, and you visited me.” (Matt. 25:34–36 NLT)
O Lord, where did I see you yesterday . . . and didn’t recognize you? Where will I encounter you today . . . and fail to identify you? O my Father, give me eyes to see, a heart to respond, and hands and feet to serve you wherever you encounter me! Transform me, Lord, by your Spirit into a servant of Christ, who delights to meet the needs of those around me. Make me a billboard of your grace, a living advertisement for the riches of your compassion. I long to hear you say to me one day, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” And I pray that today I would be that faithful servant who does well at doing good. In Jesus’ name I pray, amen.
chapter seventeen
Make a Difference
I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.
—2 TIMOTHY 4:7
Unfavorable winds blow the ship off course, and when they do, the sailors spot uncharted islands. They see half a dozen mounds rising out of the blue South Seas waters. The captain orders the men to drop anchor and goes ashore. He is a robust man with a barrel chest, full beard, and curious soul.
On the first island he sees nothing but sadness. Underfed children. Tribes in conflict. No farming or food development, no treatment for the sick, and no schools. Just simple, needy people.
The second and following islands reveal more of the same. The captain sighs at what he sees. “This is no life for these people.” But what can he do?
Then he steps onto the last and largest island. The people are healthy and well fed. Irrigation systems nourish their fields, and roads connect the villages. The children have bright eyes and strong bodies. The captain asks the chief for an explanation. How has this island moved so far ahead of the others?
The chief, who is smaller than the captain but every bit his equal in confidence, gives a quick response: “Father Benjamin. He educated us in everything from agriculture to health. He built schools and clinics and dug wells.”
The captain asks, “Can you take me to see him?”
The chief nods and signals for two tribesmen to join him. They guide the captain over a jungle ridge to a simple, expansive medical clinic. It is equipped with clean beds and staffed with trained caretakers. They show the captain the shelves of medicine and introduce him to the staff. The captain, though impressed, sees nothing of Father Benjamin. He repeats his request. “I would like to see Father Benjamin. Can you take me to where he lives?”
The three natives look puzzled. They confer among themselves. After several minutes the chief invites, “Follow us to the other side of the island.” They walk along the shoreline until they reach a series of fishponds. Canals connect the ponds to the ocean. As the tide rises, fish pass from the ocean into the ponds. The islanders then lower canal gates and trap the fish for harvest.
Again the captain is amazed. He meets fishermen and workers, gatekeepers and net casters. But he sees nothing of Father Benjamin. He wonders if he is making himself clear.
“I don’t see Father Benjamin. Please take me to where he lives.”
The trio talks privately again. After some discussion the chief offers, “Let’s go up the mountain.” They lead the captain up a steep, narrow path. After many twists and turns the path deposits them in front of a grass-roofed chapel. The voice of the chief is soft and earnest. “He has taught us about God.”
He escorts the captain inside and shows him the altar, a large wooden cross, several rows of benches, and a Bible.
“Is this where Father Benjamin lives?” the captain asks.
The men nod and smile.
“May I talk to him?”
Their faces grow suddenly serious. “Oh, that would be impossible.”
“Why?”
“He died many years ago.”
The bewildered captain stares at the men. “I asked to see him, and you showed me a clinic, some fish farms, and this chapel. You said nothing of his death.”
“You didn’t ask about his death,” the chief explains. “You asked to see where he lives. We showed you.”
part five
Nurture an Eternal Perspective
I spent a year in a subway one hour. I and a dozen or so other passengers boarded a train in a suburb of São Paulo, Brazil. Midnight was near, train station quiet, and our expectations simple: to get home safely.
We did, eventually. But only after the train, for reasons I never discovered, came to a lurching stop in a tunnel. The lights blacked out. The motors shut down. And a car of strangers sat in the inky night of an underground passage.
You can anticipate our thoughts. A few groans. Someone next to a girlfriend made a joke. Another commuter expressed frustration: “This happens every time I take this train.”
We all expected the engines to reboot and lights to reignite quickly. When they didn’t, our concerns heightened. At least mine did. Trapped underground in a confined space with a group of strangers. I checked my wallet, held my breath, and made a mental note to take the bus next time.
No one wants to be stuck in the dark, trapped in a tunnel with no word from the outside. But millions of people feel and fear that they are.
Their world seems like a stalled subway train: going nowhere with no message from the conductor. This is the picture of a life with no heaven.
A heaven-less life enjoys no light at the end of the tunnel, no hope of disembarking at the end of the ride, no home at the end of the journey. A life with no heaven chisels an epitaph like this one found on a headstone in a British cemetery: “I was nothing. I am nothing. So thou who art shall still be alive, eat, drink, and be merry.”
A life without heaven feels stuck. A society with no heaven results in chaos. Jesus once told a parable of two servants. The first one thought the master was coming home; the second didn’t. The servant who expected the master kept the house in order. The one who didn’t began “to beat his fellow servants, and to eat and drink with the drunkards” (Matt. 24:49 NKJV). No-coming master often results in no-good behavior. We hurt ourselves and others.
That’s why end-time teaching dominates the Bible. Jesus didn’t occasionally or casually refer to heaven. In fact, two-thirds of his parables relate to resurrection and the afterlife. He wants us to know this train is moving toward the final station. Everything changes when we know we are headed somewhere. Everything changed when we discovered the subway train was.
“Remain in your seats,” the voice crackled over the radio. “We will be moving soon.” And we did and we were. Lights blinked, engines cranked, and we lunged forward as suddenly as we had stopped. We sighed, smiled at one another, and gave thanks for the forward motion.
Happy are the homeward bound.
chapter eighteen
Reserve Judgment of Life’s Storms
Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
—1 CORINTHIANS 13:12
Would you buy a house if you were allowed to see only one of its rooms? Would you purchase a car if you were permitted to see only its tires and a taillight? Would you pass judgment on a book after reading only one paragraph?
Nor would I.
Good judgment requires a broad picture. Not only is that true in purchasing houses, cars, and books; it’s true in evaluating life. One failure doesn’t make a person a failure; one achievement doesn’t make a person a success.
“The end of a matter is better than its beginning,”1 penned the sage.
“Be . . . patient in affliction,”2 echoed the apostle Paul.
“Don’t judge a phrase by one word,” stated the woodcutter.
The woodcutter? Oh, you may not know him. Let me present him to you.
I met him in Brazil. He was introduced to me by a friend who knew that I needed patience. Denalyn and I were six months into a five-year stint in Brazil, and I was frustrated. My fascination with Rio de Janeiro had turned into exasperation with words I couldn’t speak and a culture I didn’t understand.
“Tenha paciência,” Maria would tell me. “Just be patient.” She was my Portuguese instructor. But more than that she was a calm voice in a noisy storm. With maternal persistence she corrected my pronunciation and helped me learn to love her homeland.
Once in the midst of a frustrating week of trying to get our goods out of customs (which eventually took three months), she gave me this story as a homework assignment. It helped my attitude far more than it helped my Portuguese.
It’s a simple fable. Yet for those of us who try to pass judgment on life with only one day’s evidence, the message is profound. I’ve done nothing to embellish it; I’ve only translated it. I pray that it will remind you, as it did me, that patience is the greater courage.
Once there was an old man who lived in a tiny village. Although poor, he was envied by all, for he owned a beautiful white horse. Even the king coveted his treasure. A horse like this had never been seen before—such was its splendor, its majesty, its strength.
People offered fabulous prices for the steed, but the old man always refused. “This horse is not a horse to me,” he would tell them. “It is a person. How could you sell a person? He is a friend, not a possession. How could you sell a friend?” The man was poor, and the temptation was great. But he never sold the horse.
One morning he found that the horse was not in the stable. All the village came to see him. “You old fool,” they scoffed, “we told you that someone would steal your horse. We warned you that you would be robbed. You are so poor. How could you ever hope to protect such a valuable animal? It would have been better to have sold him. You could have gotten whatever price you wanted. No amount would have been too high. Now the horse is gone, and you’ve been cursed with misfortune.”
The old man responded, “Don’t speak too quickly. Say only that the horse is not in the stable. That is all we know; the rest is judgment. If I’ve been cursed or not, how can you know? How can you judge?”
The people contested, “Don’t make us out to be fools! We may not be philosophers, but great philosophy is not needed. The simple fact that your horse is gone is a curse.”
The old man spoke again. “All I know is that the stable is empty, and the horse is gone. The rest I don’t know. Whether it be a curse or a blessing, I can’t say. All we can see is a fragment. Who can say what will come next?”
The people of the village laughed. They thought that the man was crazy. They had always thought he was a fool; if he wasn’t, he would have sold the hors
e and lived off the money. But instead he was a poor woodcutter, an old man still cutting firewood and dragging it out of the forest and selling it. He lived hand to mouth in the misery of poverty. Now he had proven that he was, indeed, a fool.
After fifteen days the horse returned. He hadn’t been stolen; he had run away into the forest. Not only had he returned; he had brought a dozen wild horses with him. Once again the village people gathered around the woodcutter and spoke. “Old man, you were right and we were wrong. What we thought was a curse was a blessing. Please forgive us.”
The man responded, “Once again you go too far. Say only that the horse is back. State only that a dozen horses returned with him, but don’t judge. How do you know if this is a blessing or not? You see only a fragment. Unless you know the whole story, how can you judge? You read only one page of a book. Can you judge the whole book? You read only one word of a phrase. Can you understand the entire phrase?
“Life is so vast, yet you judge all of life with one page or one word. All you have is a fragment! Don’t say that this is a blessing. No one knows. I am content with what I know. I am not perturbed by what I don’t.”
“Maybe the old man is right,” they said to one another. So they said little. But down deep they knew he was wrong. They knew it was a blessing. Twelve wild horses had returned with one horse. With a little bit of work, the animals could be broken and trained and sold for much money.
The old man had a son, an only son. The young man began to break the wild horses. After a few days he fell from one of the horses and broke both legs. Once again the villagers gathered around the old man and cast their judgments.
