It’s Sunday morning, and I pause to look out my window. In streets that criss cross my neighborhood, I see all the cars, the evidence of people at home on this Lord’s Day. Feeling sick from a sleepless night, and being six months pregnant, I had decided to stay at home and have family worship with the kids instead.
I can hear their voices as I look outside. All my friends and family members who have spoken their request through the years. “Look around you. There is need here, too. Stay here and make a difference right where you are. You are needed for Kingdom work in your own neighborhood.” I concede that there is a partial truth hidden within their well-played words. I count the cars up and down the street. More than a dozen. Representative of my neighbors who most likely do not attend church anywhere, who most likely do not share my faith in God as Refuge and Strength, who for all intents and purposes, are just as lost and alone as my Asian friends.
But that is where all musing must end. I could be content, maybe, to stay in my suburban home, looking out the window, bending into the need on a Sunday morning. I could be used up to make a difference in this neighborhood, surely, bringing Light and Life and Love to all those I encounter. I could see the Kingdom grow as one fragile seed after another is dropped into the ground, the blood and sweat of my life’s work. I could see success here, right where I am.
While it’s true that my neighbors here do not know Jesus, they are not the same as my Asian friends. As I peer through the glass on a solitary Sunday morning, I think of the plethora of churches within a few miles. I reflect on the Christian radio stations and the TV (gulp!) preachers in abundance. I think of the Christian book stores and the dusty Bibles that lay strewn across America’s rickety old shelves. Even in this neighborhood, the people have access. They may choose to ignore, refusing to drink from the Spigot that gives true Life, but they have access. They have at least one household in their neighborhood that hangs a Banner stained with Divine Blood. When they have questions about their Creator, they will certainly find His Answers.
I look around, and I see the need. I taste it, hear it, smell it, even embody it. But I also see the helpers. They are here, hidden in plain sight at times, but the workers are present in this land.
The time is drawing closer to gaze upon a different landscape on a Sunday morning. The lack of access drives me. It compels me from all sides. It’s time to look out my window at the color of poverty, at the millions of men and women and their children who still do not know what I know. It’s time to see the lost on a Sunday morning and to hear their groans through our worship songs. It’s time, once again, for there to be one lone household raising up that Banner for all to see and for all to know.
The answer is not an either/or scenario. I can’t pick this group over that group. This Kingdom work is inclusive to all neighborhoods. This one thing I know, though. When it’s time to change my address, there will be those who remain working in the gap I left. Others will move in who serve my King, peering out the same window on a Sunday morning. But if I don’t go to the places without access, specifically to my Asian friends, who will go in my place? Who will see the lost again with new eyes on a Sunday morning?
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