I didn't hear the gunshots on Monday afternoon, January 13, even though they were right up Miller Street. A 24-year-old man was killed,...
I didn't hear the gunshots on Monday afternoon, January 13, even though they were right up Miller Street. A 24-year-old man was killed, and another is in critical condition.
I'm the pastor of Fort Valley Methodist Church, which sits at the four-way where West Church Street and Miller intersect just a block from City Hall. We have a big playground and an outdoor basketball court, a Fellowship Hall, a gorgeous old sanctuary with classrooms attached, and a two-story Education Building. It's our "little corner of the world," one I've come to love deeply in my two and a half years here.
My office is tucked on the end of the Education Building away from the intersection. I'm near the basketball court, so I can hear the bump-bump-bump of a dribbled basketball, and I can hear balls clanging hard off the rim when players miss. Trains roll through town regularly, close enough that I never miss hearing their whistle. Sometimes I can even feel the rumble. Every now and then, a motorcycle or loud car roars down Miller Street, causing me to almost jump. Sometimes I hear sirens coming from the nearby Police Department or the Fire Station. All these noises remind me I'm in a small town and that my church is very much a part of its life and rhythm.
At 4 p.m., as a man lost his life and another was badly wounded, I was in my office, writing on my laptop at my desk. And I heard nothing, though people in nearby homes did. My office, with its thick brick walls, was its own serene little retreat, an oasis away from the carnage. No interruptions, no disturbance; just peace and quiet.
I love the idea of the church as a refuge from the chaos of life. That word sanctuary has power and meaning to it. Believers come here to draw into the blessed presence of God and leave the cares of the world behind. It's our hiding place, and it reminds me of the words of the old Gospel hymn, "Dwelling In Beulah Land," #95 in the beloved Cokesbury Worship Hymnal: "Safe am I within the castle of God's word retreating, nothing then can reach me-'tis Beulah Land." Church is the place we go when the world is just too much.
But . . . I didn't hear the gunshots. Some will see that as a positive, that my time of work and reflection and contemplation remained uninterrupted. That's good, I suppose, as far as it goes, but there's a danger if it goes too far. Paul, you may remember, said that we followers of Jesus are to be "in the world, but not of the world." We often emphasize the second part, the "not of the world" aspect that is a reminder that we are to be different and distinct. And we should be. However, that "in the world" part means that we are supposed to be so far removed that we can't hear the cries of the needy, that we can't hear the weeping of the mourning, that we can't hear the gunshots that speak of evil and rage and conflict. Jesus, after all, was right there in the muck and mire and sinfulness of a fallen world.
He ate lunch with a short, conniving, deceitful tax collector. He drank water with a morally impure woman. He let another such woman wash His feet with her tears. He healed lepers. He died between two thieves.
The righteous religious leaders of His day were scandalized by His willingness to hang out with the riffraff and to get so close to the profane and sinful. That didn't stop Jesus. Yes, He retreated to pray, often, according to the Gospels. But He always came back and joined the world around Him.
Why? Because it's hard to bear witness from a distance. It's hard to rescue anyone remotely. He prayed in the garden, but the saving took place on that old rugged cross, up close and personal. So close that He could see the faces of those who drove the nails, so close He could hear the words of derision and scorn the crowd hurled His way.
I love my sanctuary and my oasis with thick brick walls. This holy place provides me with a place for reflection and for communion with my Lord. That's precious and valuable, essential really. Yet, there's a world right outside those walls, a world that desperately needs my Savior, a world that is longing to know that He loves them.
Can I hear their cries? Do I hear the gunshots?
