We went into his office, shut the door and he sat down in his over-stuffed leather chair behind his huge mahogany desk. With a gentle, understanding tone, he said, “I’m just concerned that you’re ministering from a wounded place.”
I gathered from his approach and facial expression that he thought doing so was a mistake.
I replied, “Yes, I am. I wouldn’t trust any ministry that wasn’t.”
Jesus was the greatest minister of all time.
He was also very wounded.
Long before they hammered nails into his hands and feet, he was born of a virgin, considered a bastard, chased out of Bethlehem, exiled in Egypt, rejected by his home town, denied by his family, criticized, mocked, marginalized, cast out, called a sinner, a drunkard, a glutton and even proclaimed to be Satan.
These things hurt.
The truth of the matter is, none of us are worth a damn to be healers until we’ve survived the wounds.
For lacking the experience of transformation, we have a tendency to be impatient with those who have difficulty getting over the pain.
Life is not about whether you’ll be wounded or not.
You will be.
It’s about what you do next.
And the first thing you should do after being wounded is bleed.
Not a lot. You don’t want to pour out all of your life flow and confidence–just enough to dispel infection. Then stop the bleeding, cease the self-pity and clean the wound.
Take what you know to be true–memories of how you’ve been blessed–and tenderly use all of these affirmations to expel the dangerous rot that would attempt to infest you.
Bandage it.
Your healing process is nobody else’s business. It could be ugly. Other folks do not need to see your scabs. Take a private moment to heal–and then, when you’re all done, remove the bandages and proudly display your scar.
A scar tells everybody that you’ve been through the battle but you’ve endured the wounds and are coming out on the other side, healed.
No human being can escape the wounds.
Jesus didn’t.
But we become reasonable to one another when we allow the healing process to move forward, while simultaneously offering to others exactly what Jesus said to Thomas:
“Come see my scars.”
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He was one of those adolescent chums who I was sure would always be my next-door neighbor, as we borrowed lawn and garden tools from each other and swapped spares in the neighborhood bowling league.
We played football together until I quit early in the season–and sure enough, he also abandoned the sport in reverence and defiance. So I think he was a little confused when I returned to play basketball.
It was not an easy choice for me, either. I never wore shorts and because I was so large, the little tank-top jersey they provided was too tight and made my promising pecs appear to be burgeoning breasts.
But by the same token I was athletic. I was good enough to be a starter. So one afternoon, the Olentangy freshman basketball team came over to play us and Jack attended the game.
I was hoping to do well in this particular competition because I had secured the starting forward position, and I wanted to impress the coach. When I walked onto the court in all of my chubby glory, a young student from the Olentangy campus yelled out, “Hey, look! A water buffalo!”
There were some titters from the opposing faithful.
Even though I shouldn’t have, I looked around to see who was taunting me. There was this guy with a smirk on his face sitting right behind my buddy, Jack.
The coach whispered in my ear an exhortation to put it out of my mind and the game began.
But I didn’t put it out of my mind–especially when this fellow continued to call me a water buffalo and once even generated a “M-o-o-o-o!” in my direction. Honestly, the thing that crossed my mind was that I didn’t think the buffalo species “mooed.”
But being a kid, the insults affected me. I dribbled a ball off my foot, missed an easy lay-up and fouled the opposing team a couple of times in frustration. I found myself peering over at that screamer instead of paying attention to the game.
Jack just sat there quietly in front of him without moving a muscle.
All at once, when the fellow yelled out his most recent insult, Jack stood up, turned around and punched the kid in the nose. He didn’t knock him out, but the guy did bleed. Jack didn’t care. He just turned around, sat back down and watched the game.
It was amazing.
No one stopped the action.
No teacher jumped in and sent Jack off in hand-cuffs with the police.
And the fellow who had done all the yelling stopped his taunts, never filing a lawsuit.
Matter of fact, no one ever even talked to Jack about what he did, assuming it was a rite of passage between two young, emerging studs.
I finished the game free of interference and actually scored a couple of baskets.
After it was over, I thanked Jack for his assistance, but said it wasn’t necessary.
Jack replied, “I didn’t do it for you. His squawking made my ears hurt.”
I smiled–because I knew he did do it for me.
He was loyal. And even though loyalty can be misguided, it’s a pretty powerful thing to carry around … on your way to acquiring good sense.
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