I arrived at church early Sunday morning. I turned on all the lights. I got the sound system running. I clicked the overhead projector to light the screen in the sanctuary. I then went to unlock the big front doors to the church so people could come in.
As I opened the first door, there he stood. A man probably in his late 40s, early 50s. He was slender and dark complected. I welcomed him.
He said nothing but nodded, reluctant to speak. I shook his hand. Not wanting him to feel uncomfortable, I moved on to open the other doors. He entered the foyer and walked toward the coffee maker.
Once I had everything open, he came to me and for the first time spoke, “Can I make the coffee, Pastor?”
I told him: “Of course and thank you. I don’t know how to make coffee. I drink Mountain Dew.”
He said nothing else. I gave him the coffee, and off he went.
As I made my rounds, welcoming people, the man stood in the foyer against the wall. He looked forward. He was tall, slender, and as I said, dark complected. He was silent. One would think, if possible, he would have melted into the wall to avoid being seen. Nature’s rules of matter, time, and space made that impossible.
When the service began, he made his way to a seat in the back. He did not converse with anyone, nor exchange pleasantries. I saw him for a moment. Then, as I preached, I didn’t see him. Perhaps, he simply blended into the crowd. But he was there the whole service.
*******
At the end of the service, I walked to the front doors to greet people as they exited and to pray with any who desired prayer. He waited in line. The man who was first to be in church waited in line to shake my hand.
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He said nothing. I thanked him for being first at church that morning. He said nothing. I asked if he wanted me to pray for him. He did not answer. I put my hand on his shoulder, and I prayed for him anyway. I prayed for the Lord to bless him. He then moved out onto the porch of the church as others came to me one by one.
When I finished shaking hands and meeting whatever needs there were, I made my way to the television room in the church where we have hotdogs and watch football together, fellowshipping. We feed the needy who stay because they are hungry.
The tall, middle-aged, slender man was there in the hallway, just outside the television room. He stood against the wall, looking forward. I greeted him. He said nothing. I asked him if he wanted a bite to eat. He did not respond. He just stood innocently, alone, and silent.
After everyone had gotten a plate and no one else was in line, he quietly stepped inside our television room and got a plate. He made himself a hotdog with chili. He then stepped back into the hallway to eat it. About an hour passed. People were in and out to visit with me. I glanced out into the hallway. He was gone.
*******
About 2:30 p.m., I told the group I was headed home. As I opened the side door leading to the parking lot, there was the man, tall, slender, late-40s, early 50s, standing just beyond the door on the sidewalk.
He said nothing. I loaded my truck with the crockpots I brought for the food. As I made my last trip, I wished him a good week.
It was then he asked: “Pastor, do you have any work for me to do? I need to keep busy, and I wouldn’t mind earning a little money if that’s OK.”
I could not think of anything real pressing, but I said: “That’s nice of you to offer. How about picking up trash in the church and then around on the church grounds each week? We have lots of trash, tissue, cups, and things just tossed around.”
He smiled. “That would be great, Pastor. Thank you.”
And with that, he walked away.
Who comes to church on Sundays? What is their story? Why do they come? God knows them. He knows their story. The heavenly Father draws them.
I just can’t get that man out of my head. May the Lord bring the lost, the saved, the confused, the devoted, the fallen, the outspoken, the silent, the healthy, the sick, the homeless, the rich, the poor, the accepted, and the outcast. And may the Lord make us one in Jesus’ name.
Johnny Teague is the senior pastor of Church at the Cross in West Houston and the author of several books, including The Lost Diary of Mary Magdalene. His website is johnnyteague.com. The views expressed in this opinion article are those of the author.
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