World War
II took its toll on my father. A sensitive man, he
watched with horror the death and maiming of men he cared
for. In fact, his eyes actually changed color - from dark
brown to green - from the stress. After the conflict
he was forced to engage in, the thing he needed most at
home was peace. When he returned to the states, he gave
his heart to the Lord, and, along with my mother, joined
a small church near their home. As sometimes happens, a
conflict arose. No one even remembers now what it was all
about. But my father was drawn into the bitterness and
hatred. The church split and my father's faith was
destroyed.
It's hard
for me to picture my father as a church member, sitting
on the pew each Sunday in his blue serge suit. You see,
10 years later when I was born, he was an alcoholic.
Some of my
earliest memories revolve around his staggering in
drunkenness and cursing God, especially the God my mother
served. As a child who was taught to love Jesus, I
couldn't understand his pain and anguish.
What does
this have to do with lifestyle evangelism? Even though
through the years we literally begged for it, no one
seemed to care enough about him or my family to try to
help.
I cannot
guarantee that my father would have been saved if someone
had taken his plight to heart. If some Christian man had
loved Jesus enough to befriend my father and lead him
lovingly to salvation, maybe we would have been spared
years of torment and suffering. Maybe I would have been
able to see him sitting on a pew on a Sunday morning,
radiantly joyful with his family gathered around him.
I wonder if
any of the
people who were supposedly praying for my father all
those years really did call his name in prayer. It's hard
for me to believe that the Lord did not call someone
to befriend my father and minister to him. But whoever
that someone was never obeyed the Lord.
The
greatest hurt my mother ever suffered was when a church
deacon told her, "If he needs help, let him come to
the church."
I don't
understand that attitude. Jesus, our Lord and example,
never said, "If those drunks need help, let them
come to the temple".
No, Jesus
lived among sinners, being moved with compassion for
them, seeing them as sheep without a shepherd. He was
accused of being "the friend of sinners".
If we
really want to be like Jesus, we must live a lifestyle of
love. That means not only loving our Christian friends,
those that are as righteous and holy as ourselves. It
means reaching out to those in need, loving them to
Jesus, befriending the lost. If you don't count at least
one sinner as your friend, you need to climb down from
your ivory tower and join the real world. We are "in
the world" to do God's will. It should be obvious
that we are not to be "of the world" and engage
in sin. But if you cannot be accused of loving sinners,
you are not following Christ's example.
The story
of my father's life should have ended in tragedy. But,
there was one person who answered God's call to a
lifestyle of love. That person was my mother. How she
endured alcohol's abuse for all those years is a measure
of God's grace in her life. When everyone, including her
children, advised her to divorce him and leave, she
adamantly refused and held on to God's promises. It was a
beautiful lesson in God's love to us children.
And thanks
to God's mercy and my mother's lifestyle of love, my
father was born again three years before he died.
Although he was too ill to attend church, I had the
ultimate privilege of hearing my father pray for me. He
helped me through an incredibly difficult time in my own
life, and more than made up for any pain he had ever
caused me.
My family
rejoices because my father is now at peace in Heaven with
Jesus. But there is still a sad place in my heart when I
think of all those painful, wasted years, the ruin of a
sensitive, intelligent man for whom Christ died. And I
can't help but wonder, even now, if it could have been
different. If only that person who God had called to be
my father's friend had obeyed, God would have shown him
how to follow a lifestyle of love.
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