Something's Bugging Me

He’s My Brother

Theology in the Trenches

By Kathleen Kjolhaug and Richard Morrison

The young man stood keenly in the back of church hearing every word pounded from the pulpit.  His heart beat as the truth of the word was spoken, rejoicing in what he heard.  A peace enveloped him.  Oh, life wasn’t all that easy or as light hearted as it should have been for a preteen.  People dearest to him were a constant disappointment, but family ties were bound by blood.  For if one man or woman could not care for their own, in stepped uncles, aunties, or grandparents to fill the gap.  Family was family, after all, and thank God they were.  Literally, thank God.

Years passed, and once on his own life reflected mirror images of the temptations he tried so hard to avoid.  Repeating that which was seen and not what was heard came naturally.  Try as he might, any strength renewed was in his own strength, and as he prayed, “lead us not into temptation," the words had little power.  Or did they?

As His word does not return void, this yearning heart which had heard…began to respond.  Within was that still small voice…a longing for more…a yearning for the seeds that had been planted as a child.  The words of truth brought a response, and the gifts that were given began to grow within.  Confession, forgiveness, and the renewing of his spirit began.

And with that, the young man penned truth.  He began to write words that poured forth like streams of living water, truth from the word that was spoken.  And, the healing came…

Here is an excerpt from the writings of my brother and yours, Richard Morrison.  His piece is entitled, “A Moment Missed…” based on a true story.

"His eyes are dark, a shade of empty, moist with futile tears though they cannot bring him forgiveness.  Sorrow alone is not enough.  They show the longing for something more.  Anything to curb the misery of a life spun out of control.  Behind the regret and distress, something else is apparent…resentment.

A new rage courses through him.  Curses spill from his mouth in unabashed hate.

As the man tells his story, he rants about an unjust God, an abstract description of the One who gave him life.  His pain is real; the desperation and anguish is clear to everyone in the room.  He talks of the 'bad-breaks,' the acts of 'fate.'  His emotions run higher with each slanderous comment about the God who loves him, the Father he has made no effort to know, the God he claims does not exist.

I can feel my anger building within, offended by the attack on the Savior.  How can he say these things about a God he knows nothing of?  'Tell him,' the inaudible voice whispers.  I hesitate.

It’s apparent that this man full of hate has never heard.  No one has spoken to him of the love poured out on his behalf.  No one has taken the time to speak about the grace freely offered.  There are moments such as these etched in my mind as the Lord answers my prayer to 'use me.'   He continues nudging me.

'Step out; reach out for My namesake,' he whispers.   I remain frozen in my seat…and the verse faintly comes...'faith without works…'

The meeting is over.  I didn’t say a word.  Days follow, and I am desperate to relieve my conscience.  I ask forgiveness for my weakness, my selfishness.  I promise that next time, Lord, I will speak.  Pushing aside the guilt, I begin justifying the reasons for not speaking up and actually begin to believe the list of arguments mouthed.

Who’s to know if he would have listened anyway?  After all, I barely knew him.  Who am I to ask if he knows Jesus?   I’ll make an effort later when I’m more prepared…next time.

Next time?   There will be no next time.  The news came as suddenly as his death.   My stomach began to lurch, and I wept.   

Forgive me Lord; forgive me.”   Amen.