Is My Life Significant?: Part 2

What is your ministry?

Most often, we think that God’s will for us is a great mystery, waiting to be uncovered. And we aren’t going to really work for him unless we understand the job description. We look for a burning bush proclamation from God before we get up and take our place among the priesthood of all believers. How do you compare a Chihuahua with a Newfoundland. Or a Pekinese with a Pit Bull? Yet in dog shows, after a champion has been crowned in each breed, the next competition is to find the best dog in each “Group” — herding, working, sporting, toy, and the group that we’d all like to be in, the “non working.” After a winner has been picked from each of these groups, they compete in the coveted “Best of Show.”

It is in the “Best of Show” show-down that the judges really seem to be judging apples against oranges. And yet they are not. In each stage of a dog-show competition, each pooch a judge examines is held up to the standards established for its own breed. So even though in the “Best of Show” assembly a Scottie might be competing against a Samoyed, the Scottie is being judged only according to Scottish Terrier standards. The “Best in Show” winner is the dog that best embodies the ideal of its own breed, the dog that is truest to type, the dog that best embodies the essence of itself.

This is so different from the winner of a horse race, or a dog race. The standards of “best” are completely different. The best horse in a horse race is easy to tell: it’s the first horse across the finish line. The best greyhound in a greyhound race is easy to tell: it’s the first dog to cross the finish line. It’s not so easy to figure out what dog will be the “Best in Show.”

I. Don’t abdicate your station, your promotion from God.

You’ll be missing the best stuff of life.

It's like the story of a small boy whose mother, unknown to him, planned a surprise birthday party. After he got home, he went upstairs to his room. Then all his classmates and teachers gathered in the living room. When his mother went to his room to get him, he was gone. He had climbed down a tree outside his window and was hiding in a nearby park. The rest of the children went on to enjoy a good time, but the boy never turned up. When he came in for supper his mother asked where he had been; he had missed a wonderful time, planned just for him. He tearfully confessed he had heard her call but hid until suppertime because he thought she had a chore for him to do! How sad - for him and for us if we make the same mistake. There is a party being prepared. The guest list is all inclusive. No matter how many parties we have missed in this world, we don’t have to miss out on this party. The One who throws this party is all loving, all gracious, all generous. We are invited even though there is nothing in this world we can do to repay our host. All that is asked is that we accept the invitation.

We are all on call. We are called to be watchers and seers. Many watched the birds fly, but it was the Wright brothers who saw that their wings were curved on the upper surface, thus enabling us to fly, too. Many had seen the lowly peanut plant, but Dr. George Washington Carver saw in it a host of products and derivatives that have blessed our lives. Many biologists had watched mold form in the culture dish, but Alexander Fleming saw penicillin and an advance in human health resulted.

I love Fred Craddock stories. I’ll never forget when he came to preach at Marvin UMC. He was small and his voice was high. His message was deep.

A few years back, Fred was invited to lead some kind of preaching mission in Winnipeg (Friday night ... Saturday morning ... Saturday evening ... twice on Sunday ... you know the drill). When he finished Friday night, he noticed that it was spitting snow. His host told him not to worry, given that it was only mid-October. "Good," said Fred, "because all I brought from Atlanta was this little, thin jacket."

Fred went to bed. But when he got up the next morning, he couldn't open the door for all the white stuff that was piled against it. Snow driving. Wind howling. Temperature falling. Phone ringing. It was the host calling Fred's motel room.

I hate to tell you this, but we're going to have to cancel this morning's session. Can't tell about the evening. But things look pretty bad. Nobody saw this coming. City's not ready. Plows, not ready. Crews, not ready. Nothing's ready. Worse yet, nothing's open. In fact, I'm stuck in my driveway, meaning that I can't come down to fetch you. So I don't know what you are going to do about breakfast. But I do have an idea. If you can make it out of your room, walk down to the corner ... turn right ... go one block ... turn right again ... and you should be standing within shouting distance of the bus station. There's a little cafe in there. And if any place is gonna be open, it's gonna be open.

So Fred curses his luck, zips up his jacket, busts out his door, and goes in search of the little cafe. Two rights. Bus station. There it is. Wonder of wonders, it's open. But it's also crowded. It seems as if every stranded soul in the universe is crammed inside.

There is no place to sit. But some guy slides down the bench and makes room for Fred to squeeze in. Waiter comes over ... big burly guy ... non-shaven ... wearing half the kitchen on his apron. "Whatcha want?" he snarls. "Can I see a menu?" Fred asks. "Don't need no menu," the waiter answers. "Didn't get no deliveries this morning. All we got is soup." "Well then," says Fred, "soup it is. I like a little breakfast soup from time to time."

So the soup comes in a rather tallish mug. Looks awful. Shade of mousey gray.Fred half-wonders if that's what it could be ... cream of mouse. So he doesn't eat it. But he does use the mug as a stove ... cupping his fingers around it ... warming them on it.

Which is when the door opens once more. Wind howls. Cold surges. "Shut the blankety-blank door," someone shouts. Lady enters. Thin coat. No hat. Ice crystals in her hair and eyebrows. Maybe 40. Painfully skinny. Men slide over to make room for her at another table.

"Whatcha want?" shouts the guy with the greasy apron. "I'll just have a glass of water," she answers. "Look lady," he says. "We're crowded in here. We don't give no glasses of water. Either you order something or you leave."

Well, it quickly becomes apparent that she isn't able to buy something. So she rebuttons her coat and commences to leave. Whereupon a funny thing happens. One by one, everybody at her table gets up to leave, too. Followed by others ... at other tables. Even Fred (who still hasn't touched his soup) gets up to leave.

"All right ... all right," says the soup master. "She can stay." And he brings her a bowl of soup. With order restored, Fred turns to his table mate and says: "Who is she? She must be somebody important." To which the guy says: "Never saw her before in my life. But I kinda figure if she's not welcome, ain't nobody welcome."

Which pretty much settled the matter, to the point where all you could hear (for the next few minutes) were soup spoons clinking against the sides of the mugs. Even Fred broke down and ate his soup. Which wasn't half bad, really. Some might even call it tasty.

Later on, he still couldn't make out the taste ... but he felt as if he'd had it before. But what was it? He couldn't remember. For the life of him, he couldn't remember. Then it hit him. Strangest thing, really. That cream of mouse soup tasted, for all the world, like bread and wine. That was it ... for all the world like bread and wine.