Someone sent me an Email that was a simple quiz, asking me if I could name the richest people in the world. Then it asked me to name the last three Heisman Trophy winners. Then the winners of the Super Bowl, the World Series, the Miss America contest, the Nobel Prize, and the Academy Awards. I got some of them right for this year, but didn’t do very well beyond that. The headliners of yesterday, the best in their fields, the top winners that achieved first place are soon forgotten, as are the also-rans and runners-up and honorable-mentions. It doesn’t take long for the awards to tarnish, the certificates to fade, and for the applause and cheering to die.
Then there was a part two to the quiz. It asked me to remember a teacher who helped me along the way, a few friends who assisted in difficult times, a neighbor who did something special, a grocery clerk who was friendly, and somebody who made me feel special. That part was much easier. In fact, my mind began to think back to people who have long since gone out of my life, but they made an impact.
There was a lady who invited me to “Good News Club”, in which I don’t remember a thing they taught, except she gave me cookies and told me that Jesus loved me so much He was willing to die for me. Fifty years later it is still the best thing I ever heard.
I remember a friend who took me with him when I was so shy, and introduced me to all of his friends, and some of those friends actually liked me, and suddenly the dirty air of Birmingham smelled like “home”, and I loved it!
There was a lady whom I didn’t even know, who thought that my voice was so special she insisted that I sing two songs at her wedding, though I had never done a solo before. But I practiced really hard and pulled it off!
I also remember a teacher in college who thought one of my essays was so good that she read it to the whole class. And there was a really beautiful girl in school who thought I was “cute” and told me so. (It was a long time ago!) And some strange but wonderful people who always laughed aloud at my jokes, even the dumb ones, saying I just “cracked them up”. Even that YMCA football game when my teammates cheered because I had “sacked” the opposing quarterback. I wasn’t very good, but on that one play, that one time, I was great!
Then there was a lonely evening when I was discouraged and miserable, and an old friend “out of the blue” called me and invited me to something really special, saying it would not be the same without me.
And the time when my little boy said that he didn’t want me to buy him anything; he only wanted to be with me.
And that cold November night when I thought that I would bring encouragement to my dying father by watching a football game with him. In the first quarter, he said, “Jimmy, please turn off the ball game and just talk to me about my true home that I’m about to go to.”
And then there was that special and ecstatic time when the love of my life said, “I love you”. And the time many years later, when our hearts were broken and we had thought the marriage would end, that she sent me a card that simply said, “Come get me.”
As I looked again at the quiz, I realized that none of the “top achievers” in any field had made any difference in my life at all. But many relative unknowns had made enormous contributions to everything that is good in my life.
I realized that shiny trophies, coveted Oscars, and prestigious awards are fine for only a very short while. But those who invest in the lives of others are the real winners, the real heroes, the ones who will not be forgotten. It’s not about success, or fame, or being in the record books. It’s not about being number one. It’s about being a friend. It doesn’t take any special talent. But it takes time, and heart, and unselfishness, and caring enough to show up.
From a desperate and confusing time in the late sixties, the importance of being a friend came home to us meaningfully in a song by Simon and Garfunkel:
When you’re weary—feeling small
When tears are in your eyes—I will dry them all;
I’m on your side when times get rough
And friends just can’t be found,
Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down.
Come to think of it, maybe that is a special talent –a very special one. I’m going to have to deal with the fact that I will never get an Oscar. I will never wear a World Series ring. I will never score a touchdown in a stadium. My name will not be engraved on a trophy.
But I can be a bridge for somebody who might not make it without me. I will lay me down.
A nice middle aged man came up to me and with tears in his eyes related that his life had been changed by something I had said many years ago. I asked what I had said, and when he told me the details, I honestly couldn’t remember saying such a thing. But to him it had been powerful, said in the right way and at the right time, and I was grateful that it had happened.
A man and his wife said to me that a few words I had said on the radio had been used to comfort them at a time of sorrow in their lives. I rejoiced.
A lady stopped me in the aisle of a store, and in tears said that something I had done was her motivation to keep going and to not give up. It really made me feel good.
A young man called me crying and said that he was promising me that his life was about to change as a result of a column I had written. I was filled with gratitude and encouragement.
But wait – I really would rather not tell the whole story, but I must. The complete truth is that there are also some who, because of me, have been offended. The hypocrisies and inconsistencies of my life have alienated some people. My own selfishness, my controlling ways, my insistence that I was a hundred percent right, have made some people decide that they could not really listen to anything I had to say. That is the part that I don’t rejoice in. There have been times when I wondered if the only real ministry I could ever have would be to serve as a bad example.
Am I a great and effective leader and spokesman for truth and for God? Am I a gift to people, a blessing from above, a profound and thoughtful man of truth and faith and love and spirituality?
Or am I a hypocrite, a shyster, a phony, unworthy and unqualified and unable to really help anybody?
The truth is that I am neither. And the truth is that I am both.
And here is the ironic, paradoxical thing, which I hope that I can explain without confusing anybody: When I think that I’m the good guy- I’m the bad guy. When I think that I’m the bad guy- I’m the good guy. If I start to think of myself as good and obedient and right and righteous- if I start to think of myself as “God’s gift to poor dumb sinners”, I am not the solution to anything- I am the problem. My arrogance will know no bounds. The people I hurt will be many. And I will think that all of them are wrong, but I am right.
On the other hand, if I can remember that I am just a messed up person, often weak, often wrong, often sinful and always unworthy, and if I can honestly and humbly remember that, I can help somebody along the way. And I won’t even know that I’m doing it until I hear about it later.
Steve Brown has often said, “The best thing you’ve got going for you spiritually is your sin, when you know about it. And the worst thing going against you spiritually is your obedience, when you know about it.”
Saint Paul put it this way, “I glory in my weaknesses and failures and reproaches, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me- for when I am weak, only then am I strong.” The old spiritual song said it so well: “Not my brother, not my sister, but it’s me, oh Lord- standin’ in the need of prayer.” A classic “Pogo” cartoon once said, “We have come face-to-face with the enemy, and he is us!’
May I tell you a secret? Nobody but nobody has a handle on the Almighty. If you can understand or explain everything about God, you need to get a bigger one, because the one you have is not God. Some things will always be a mystery. Some things we will never get right. As long as we live on this earth, there will be areas in which you and I will really fall on our face. Accept it. We’re not home yet.
I may get in trouble for saying this, but Jesus did not come to give us all the answers, or to fix our jobs or our marriages or our finances. He didn’t come to give me great success, or to help our football team to win, or even to make your church grow. He didn’t come to lower taxes, to take over politics, or to fill the Supreme Court with conservatives or liberals. Forgive me, but He didn’t even come to “bless America”. He came to show us what a loving God was like, and to forgive all the people who are so absolutely messed up, guilty, and unworthy. Not surprisingly, the sinners loved Him, but the saints killed Him.
Be very careful of people who would have you to believe that they have all of the answers, with no uncertainty, and no sin in their life. That kind of person is very dangerous. Watch out for him. Even if he is us.
Every time I look at the back of my right hand, and see that two-inch long scar, I think of “Scottie”. He was a “bull dog-bird dog” mix, the kind of dog that people give away if they can find anybody who wants one. But to a boy, his dog is the greatest thing in the world. A loyal dog will adore its owner, who may have many shortcomings, but to the dog he is a god. The same respect is returned to the dog only by little boys.
We got Scottie when he was just a puppy, and I could not believe my dad when he said he was “free”. “THIS dog had to have cost hundreds of dollars, dad. Who would GIVE away such a smart and beautiful and sweet puppy?” From the time I was six he was my most trusted friend, always wanting to go wherever I went, and I would have taken him to school with me if I could. Once I did, and they made me take him home. My teachers were so narrow-minded.
Anyway, here’s the story of how I got the scar on my hand. I was somewhere around thirteen, and puberty was making me think my folks were stupid and I knew more than they did. I talked back to my mother in a loud voice one night, and she told me to go outside until I could “straighten up”. I slammed the door, and then for good measure I put my fist through the window glass, ripping a huge gash in my hand. But I was too proud (or maybe too angry) to go back inside, and Scottie and I took off away from home. Wrapping my hand in newspapers, I walked eight miles through Birmingham, from Ensley on the west side to Woodlawn on the east side of the city. Of course Scottie was right there with me, never more than three feet away. We walked through downtown, past the steel mills, through the neighborhoods, to my grandmother’s house. It took us four hours.
My grandmother gave me a hug, took me inside, bandaged my hand, and called my parents to let them know that I was okay and would be staying the night with her. Scottie, who had never been to her house, lay down on her front porch as I went inside. It was by now past midnight.
The next morning I woke up feeling fine, but Scottie was gone. I called him and walked around the yard and through my grandmother’s neighborhood, but Scottie could not be found. He had been my closest companion for seven years, and now I had lost him, and all because of my own rebellion against my mother, and my stubborn attitude which made me walk eight miles rather than turn around and apologize. I prayed and I cried and repented. “Please, God, all I want is my little dog back! I will be better from now on, I promise!”
Sometime around noon my grandmother drove me on a sad trip back to where I lived. But upon arriving home, as we were coming up the steep steps in front, there was Scottie, waiting for me on the porch. He was so tired, but he was home! My mother said he got there just before we did, and he had collapsed from exhaustion, so weak that he had bumped his head as he lay down.
Looking down at this faithful little animal on my porch, I wondered how many miles Scottie had walked as he sniffed his way through the city of Birmingham for twelve hours. I thought about how many times he must have come close to being hit by a car as he sought his way through the downtown traffic. I wondered what had driven him to keep going, and how he could find his way at all, with all the confusing noises and smells of the city. But I was so glad that he had made it, and was so grateful that he was back with me! Lying down on the porch beside Scottie, I put my arm around him, amazed at the resilience and instincts of a common, mixed-breed, “free” dog.
Today I am still amazed that the best things in life are indeed free. What we can earn or achieve or purchase are nothing compared to what God provides for us at no charge. It’s called “grace”, and it really is free. And it really is, as the hymn says, amazing! And, just as a reminder of His faithfulness, He has given us these wonderful creatures that never knew their daddy, and forgot about their mama, but they wag their tail and think we are the greatest thing since sliced bacon.
Looking back, I ask myself some questions about what really happened that day. Did God really answer a boy’s panicked prayer? Did almost losing my canine companion make me appreciate him more? Can humans learn from animals something about loyalty and determination? As I grew up, would I ever do anything that stupid again?
The answers are yes, yes, yes, and “are you kidding?”
See that same hand? Someday I’ll tell you about the other scar!