Ferguson Jones Asks Why

On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. 

“Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

“What is written in the Law?” he replied. “How do you read it?”

He answered, 

“ ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart 

and with all your soul 

and with all your strength 

and with all your mind’; 

and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ ”

“You have answered correctly,” Jesus replied. “Do this and you will live.”

But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, 

“And who is my neighbor?”

Luke 10:25-29 (NIV)

The town never slept entirely; a window-screen rattled within its frame. Radio music, slightly static, meandered between the ballpark fence and the Shop-And-Go. Headlights leaked across narrow country lanes, faintly illuminating sentinel rows of corn, sky high and rustling in the darkness of a crescent moon. The light, like a finger pointed in curiosity, nudged a still body, lying awkwardly in the grass by the side of the road leading onto Main Street. It was Ferguson Jones; he was barely conscious.

Ferguson knew he was in trouble, but he couldn't wrap his throbbing head around the how and why. Gingerly allowing his hands to creep from hips to shoulders, to knees, to ankles, he checked the tender spots, the aching places. He felt like he'd been thrown from a truck; everything hurt.

A sliver of red sun thrust up from the hills to the east, rolling back the night like a slow motion film. Ferguson couldn't stand; something was broken; a bone down there, that wouldn't bear his weight.

It would be daylight soon. Someone would help. He lay back down and tried to ignore the pain.

By the time the sun had traveled a thumb's width above the trees, Ferguson had counted five cars. Five cars had passed him by, black and white cruisers coming to check in, gliding like sharks, eyes focused forward toward the day, lethally close and full of power. They never saw the man. If anything, they saw a bundle of rags, a clump of garbage, and it didn't concern them. Ferguson knew the law would not help him.

A red and white pickup truck hauling a wagon piled with hay rattled toward him. Ferguson raised himself up on his elbows and twisted his hips under, wrenching a shoulder with the effort. His eyes threatened rain as surely as the red sun of morning; tears of hope pooled and he blinked rapidly, in time to watch the farmer drive by. If only the man had looked his way. Surely he would have stopped. If only he'd had eyes to see.

A growing knot in Ferguson's stomach competed with pounding pain. The day grew brighter and his circumstances grew more serious. He remembered. License suspended, car impounded, he had hitched a ride into this town. This town where he wasn't known, where his past was not pulled out and paraded in front of him. Just a couple of drinks, he'd thought. Just a couple of laughs. But the ride had turned to nightmare. He remembered the feel of the gun on the back of his head; the passenger in the backseat told him to hand over his wallet, his watch, his valuables.

"Open the door," the man instructed. "Get out."

He could still hear the low chuckle of the driver as he slowed down just enough to push Ferguson against the opened door. He rolled on impact, the sickening thud and crack of his body hitting the pavement drowned the retreating sound of tires and muffler. And then, nothing; he must have passed out.

Ferguson heard the next vehicle rumbling from a distance.  He struggled to make himself more visible to the driver sitting high in the cab of the approaching semi. Managing to sit, he used his arms, waving desperately. With each movement, pain. He saw the driver turn. He felt the driver's eyes on him, looking down from the cab like a judge from on high. Looking down at the fluttering body by the side of the road. No identification. No money. Ferguson didn't have anything to offer for the help he needed, help that was again denied him. Body broken, spirit parched, Ferguson lay back down, defeated.

One more time before the sun stood full in the sky, Ferguson struggled for the compassion of strangers. A church van slowed for a moment, raising his hope again. He couldn't help the angry flip-off he'd thrown when it sped away, kicking gravel in his direction. Satisfaction in seeing the shocked look on the faces of the holier-than-thous struggled with regret when he collapsed, nerves on fire, as a result of  his one-fingered action, his defensive reflex born of a lifetime of self-defeat.

He tried again to stand. Gritting teeth and fisting hands, he rolled onto bloody elbows and pulled torn knees beneath aching hips. His right leg wouldn't hold; he collapsed, exhausted and shaking with the effort. Then he tried to scoot along the shoulder of the road, through the tall grass, stretching his arms out behind to support his torso, and dragging the useless legs. The pain was manageable, and he made small progress. He found it easier to close his eyes, shut the world away, and focus solely on pulling himself down the road.

"Hey, Mister."

With the voice, a change, like feeling the sun go behind a cloud. Ferguson planted his hands in the grass and opened his eyes. Tennis shoes, blue jeans, loose and worn, standing in the light, shadow falling, blanketing him where he sat.

"You look bad, Mister." The voice again, deepish, with a hint of that adolescent break. Young.

Eyes tracking up, Ferguson noted the sag in the pants, the hoodie pulled up, the pocketed hands. He saw eyes the color of compassion, and a face overflowing with kindness, and he wondered. Why him?

"I'm gonna get you to the hospital, you need help. I'm gonna take care of you."

 Why not?

The first question that the Levite and the Priest asked was: 

‘If I stop to help this man, what will happen to me?’  

But…the good Samaritan reversed the question: 

‘If I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to him?’

Martin Luther King, Jr.

Linking with Thought-Provoking Thursday, Beloved Brews,  Everyday Jesus 

Warp and Weft

You are the light of the world. 

A town built on a hill cannot be hidden.  

Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. 

Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. 

Matthew 5:14-15

I want my rose-colored, Pollyanna glasses to take away the pain.  I want to turn up the volume of praise music so I won't hear the heartache, or change the channel to entertain, or read a book and escape.   I want to move away from the crime, and the crowded, and the prejudice and live in an old-town community of barn-raising and pot-lucks and quilting bees.  But I can't seem to get away from this world.

Perhaps because this world is in me.  It is part of me.  It helps define me just as much as I define it.  Sometimes the differences overwhelm the similarities.  Sometimes the hurt outweighs the hope, and love is lost in a labyrinth of discontent.  Sometimes I feel like I'm at the bottom of a half-empty glass and can't find my way to half-full.  Sometimes we're on that forever treadmill, running and running away and discovering we haven't moved at all.

I can't run away from who I am, and neither can you.

Maybe it's not a question of running from, but a determination to run toward.

“Though we cannot think alike, may we not love alike? 

May we not be of one heart, though we are not of one opinion? 

Without all doubt, we may. 

Herein all the children of God may unite, 

notwithstanding these smaller differences.” 

― John Wesley

They say there needs to be a separation of church and state, and so prayer and mention of God has been taken out of our schools.  

They say there needs to be a separation of church and state, and so prayer and mention of God has been taken out of our military and our law enforcement.

They say there needs to be a separation of church and state, and so prayer and mention of God has been taken away from our legislators and our court systems.

But we are children of God; we believe in Jesus Christ as the Way, the Truth and the Life and following him has changed us.  You, who are starting school, who have to follow rules and regulations about what to say and when to say it - it's ok.  You will speak volumes through your actions, because Christ is in you.  Remember him.  

You who patrol the every-day streets, who safeguard our freedoms at home and on foreign soil, you who are trained in battle and war-weary, you who work within a roiling soup of disrespect and discontent, who dedicate yourselves to serve and protect, you who have to make life-and-death decisions in split-second time on snapshots of information - You, too, are a child of God.  Christ is in you.  Remember him.  Pray.  Nothing can separate you from the love of God, and his love will guide you.  You will speak volumes through your actions.

You who sit in judgment - officially and unofficially.  You who write laws and guidelines and handbooks and directions.  You are a child of God.  He is with you when you ask.  You don't need to pray out loud.  You don't need to call attention to yourself.  You may carefully choose your words, but you have the gift of words and He will guide you. 

You are like a tapestry, intersecting threads across the loom of your life.  The warp threads, the foundation of the weaving, is Jesus.  He stabilizes you; He strengthens you; He is your constant.  The weft threads, woven in and around, the changing colors, the design - those are you.  They are your experiences, your beliefs, your knowledge, your emotions; they are the different sides of you.  Together, warp and weft,  you are strong and beautiful - a work of art.  A child of God.  

The warp cannot be separated from the tapestry.  You cannot be separated from your Savior.  And this world needs you to be strong and beautiful.  Different and unique.  A work of art.  A child of God.

Jesus said to love your enemies.  He said the world would not be fair.  He said treat others as you would like to be treated.  He said love God and love your neighbor.

This is our warp.  This is our foundation.  This is what we should be running toward.

Heavenly Father, 
In these days of Fergusons, and shooters at Army posts, and mountaintops in foreign places, 
in these days of separation of church and state, of violence and evil - 

help us to remember that we cannot be separated from you. 

Help us to embrace you in the stillness of listening and to find you in the heat of arguing.   

Help us, even in the hard stuff, the want-to-run-away-from stuff.  

Help us to glorify you through our words and our actions. 

Help us to do what Jesus taught us to do.

Heavenly Father, come.

Linking with #TellHisStory, ThreeWordWednesday