marketplace

I wonder if it’s time to shut down my social network page.

You know the one I mean. New stories are added every few moments. Anniversaries are noted, birthdays announced.

One friend is angry at the news media. Another is fed up with evil doctors and wants to be sure I understand the value of something called essential oils. Photos of cute kitties magically appear. There are also awful images of abused dogs, or horses, or turtles.

And constantly, along the side of the computer display, a feed runs down the page, with little bits of information appearing magically, one right after the other. So-and-so likes this; he posted this; she commented about this.

TMI! I’ve learned the acronym, in days long past now.

Too Much Information!

My brain screams the words, even as I devour said information. Without intent, I now know that my old friend’s son believes drug use to be acceptable and even desirable. Another acquaintance vilifies followers of Christ and ridicules the very idea of a God, any God. It’s time to party-hearty with old school classmates. Jokes abound, both in print and picture form. I may or may not have contributed some of these.

And the language! Used-to-be children that I bounced on my knee use words we once would have expected to make a sailor blush. Now, no one blushes.

At times, my soul actually feels soiled, as if a good cleansing with Ivory soap and clean water might make it better.

I should turn it off.

Shouldn’t I?

I sit and think. Another acronym comes to mind. It is an old, tired set of letters, once found on bumper stickers, mugs, and bracelets. Unlike the acronym above, it is not followed by an exclamation point, but a question mark. So overused, it has become a joke to many; still it bears another look.

It requires some contemplation.

WWJD?

What Would Jesus Do?

We know the answer already, don’t we? He spent His days and nights in the center of the population, participating in the discourse of the day. He didn’t waste a lot of time with the nodding, gesturing clergy, but He interacted with the cursing, drinking, perverse people. (Matthew 11:19)

Every day.

I wonder–Did His soul feel dirty from the filth and stench, too?

Did His soul feel dirty from the filth and stench, too? Click To Tweet

In the center of the Agora, the marketplace, the plan to change the world was implemented.

One-by-one, ten-by-ten, thousands-by-thousands, He intersected their daily lives with the truth, with love, with companionship.

The world would never be the same.

Still, I’m not excited about the route this marketplace living takes sometimes.

I’m not comfortable.

Funny. We really like comfortable, don’t we?

The couch is comfortable. Bed is comfortable. The back deck is comfortable. Your house shoes and pajamas are comfortable.

You just can’t accomplish anything in them.

In my mind’s eye, I look back over the path I’ve walked. I think I’ve walked it asking to know WWJD. A long look back focuses on the direction the steps have taken.

Did I take a sharp turn from the lane somewhere? How did I get here, in the marketplace, virtually and actually?

The social network I want to switch off is not so far removed from the retail space in which I labor five days a week. Oh, folks try to control their language, knowing who I claim to be, but what is hidden inside always comes out eventually. The language, the ideas, the lifestyles can’t be disguised behind the facades forever.

Am I supposed to be here?

Again, I glance back. No. My footsteps have led, one weary stride after another, in the same direction. I could not have found another route that would lead to my goal.

I walk in the marketplace. You probably do too.

How do we act while here?

Do we hurry through, as if afraid that we’ll get dirty too?

Do we loiter in the dark corners, participating in the filth and immorality?

Would we rather avoid it altogether?

All of the sudden, I find myself wondering about comfort again. The realization hits about my comments above.

The day I get comfortable is the day I lose sight of who I am and why I’m here in the marketplace. The minute I think I’m home and kick my shoes off to put on my slippers is the instant I’ve stopped walking the path set out for me.

If the marketplace doesn’t make us uncomfortable, perhaps we need to lace up our walking shoes again and look ahead of us.

There is more. People need us up and doing. Where they are.

I’m ready. You?

Just so you know, though, I’m not looking at your selfies of your latest visit to the dentist. Some things really are too much information.

I simply argue that the cross should be raised at the center of the marketplace as well as on the steeple of the church. I am recovering the claim that Jesus was not crucified in a cathedral between two candles, but on a cross between two thieves; on the town’s garbage heap; at a crossroad so cosmopolitan they had to write His title in Hebrew and Latin and Greek…at the kind of a place where cynics talk smut, and thieves curse, and soldiers gamble. Because that is where He died. And that is what He died for. And that is what He died about. That is where church-men ought to be and what church-men ought to be about.
(George McLeod ~ Scottish pastor ~ 1895-1991)

Do not be deceived: Bad company corrupts good morals. Become sober-minded as you ought, and stop sinning, for some have no knowledge of God.
(1 Corinthians 15:33,34 ~ NASB)

There are times when you just know. Beyond a shadow of doubt, you know: This is why you are here.

This moment. This person.

The Lovely Lady had first crack at her today. The lady, like many others we see this time of year, is struggling with acquiring a musical instrument for her aspiring band member. No money. No knowledge of what constitutes a good instrument, nor how to tell if it is in good condition. No one she can trust to be honest with her.

She does have a clarinet in her hands as she enters the music store. She also has a discouraged look on her face. I never heard the full story of how she came by the clarinet, but I do know she wants us to make it play correctly for her sixth grader. She is not optimistic.

“I’m sure it needs a repad. Can you do that for me?”

The Lovely Lady opens the case and looks over the horn, expecting the worst. Since I am busy with another customer, I leave her to handle things by herself. It is obvious she is a little confused, and I expect a call for help momentarily. What I hear is her suggesting the lady is mistaken.

“Well, a repad is quite expensive, but I’m not sure that’s what you need. Let’s wait for the expert.” (She always says that, but it’s not really a good description of my abilities.)

As soon as I can break free, I head for the counter where the diminutive lady is waiting, still with an unhappy visage. I’m prepared to point out the problem areas and make an estimate for the nervous mom. Taking the individual pieces of the horn in my hand one after another, I look for something to point to. Nothing.

That can’t be right. This lady came in expecting big problems. Surely I can find something.

I look again. Testing the sealing ability of the pads, I find no sign of any leaks anywhere on the instrument. The corks are fine. A little dingy, but completely intact. There is absolutely nothing wrong with the clarinet.

I have a dilemma.

The lady came in expecting to leave the instrument with us for repair. She assumes there will be a sizable charge due when the repair is finished.

I’m in business to make a profit. How hard can this be?

“Oh yes, Ma’am. We really do need to replace quite a few pads here. And, the corks—they’ll need to be changed also. It won’t cost as much as a repad, but still, it will take a good bit to get this horn into shape for your daughter.”

So easy. She would never know. It’s what she expects anyway.

The decision is made without hesitation. It is who I am—who we are. Now.

“No Ma’am. The horn is in excellent condition. What? Oh no. No charge.”

You would hardly have recognized the woman who walked out that door as the same lady who had come in moments earlier. A smile shone across her face, the like of which hadn’t likely been seen there recently.

I felt good. I felt bad.

It was almost the same feeling I had a day or two ago, when a girl and her mom had come in to purchase a small item. The lady spoke no English. None at all. Her daughter translated every word for her as the transaction was made.

The two were still in the store when a regular customer of mine walked nearby shaking his head. His eyes shot daggers at the two, as he spoke the words to me.

“I hate that! Why don’t they learn our language?”

Do you know how easy it would have been for me to simply nod my head? Just a nod. No words would have been necessary.

But, this also is why I am here.

I explained to him my admiration for folks who leave their land in search of a better life for their families. Struggling to be at home in a strange place, they walk out of their door into a battleground every day. I will not participate in the hatred of another human being.

I say the words kindly to him, but he rolls his eyes in disgust as he walks out.

I may have lost a customer. I hope not, but I would do it again.

I felt bad. I felt good.

This is why I’m here. It’s why you’re where you are.

To do the right thing. Even when we’d rather do the easy thing.

To show a life that is different because of what God has done in us.

It is how He works in this world—how He has always worked.

I don’t necessarily want this to be why I’m here. Sometimes, I wonder why God won’t leave me alone to make a comfortable living like any other red-blooded American. If that means taking advantage of folks who have their wallets in their hands, so be it. If I have to walk on a few people to gain the approval of others, why not?

And then I remember a God who told His Chosen People that their scales were to be honest, their weights to be accurate, their measurements to be correct.

Thousands of years ago, He made it clear.

The world has one standard: Every man for himself. All is fair in love and war.

God has another standard, a standard which has never changed: Love your neighbor as yourself. Period.

The standard applies in our family life; it applies to our friendships; it applies in our churches. And, no less than any other place, it applies in the marketplace.

Perhaps, more.

The marketplace is where who we really are is on display for all to see. It’s where our integrity comes out of the dark of night, and into the light of day.

It’s where our talk of following a Savior is proven, or else belied, by our walk.

Can I let you in on a secret? I have kept my mouth shut too many times. I have found myself letting folks spend more than they should on things they didn’t need.

I don’t write about the two interactions above to draw attention to my stellar accomplishments, but rather to draw attention to who we need to be—who we must be in our marketplace.

We all fail in our determination to walk in integrity—I, as often as anyone I know.

But. Grace.

Grace is a wonderful thing; its beauty is in its resilience. Failures become victories. Timidity becomes boldness.

Selfishness becomes love.

The Teacher spent a good bit of His time in the marketplace.

Doing good. Showing love.

Our turn.

I simply argue that the cross be raised again at the centre of the market place as well as on the steeple of the Church.
I am recovering the claim that Jesus was not crucified in a cathedral between two candles; but on a cross between two thieves; on a town garbage heap; at the crossroad of politics so cosmopolitan that they had to write His title in Hebrew and in Latin and in Greek… And at the kind of place where cynics talk smut, and thieves curse and soldiers gamble.
Because that is where He died, and that is what He died about. And that is where Christ’s men ought to be and what church people ought to be about.
(George Macleod ~ Scottish minister/theologian ~ 1895-1991)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

The Marketplace

The Marketplace