Do you remember (if you are from a southern, American,
Christian home, or even once attended a VBS in such a place) that little song
about the builders? The words are from scripture,
(Matt 7:24ff and Luke 6:46ff) but with a bit more onomatopoeia. The song goes:
The wise man built his house upon the rock.
The wise man built his house upon the rock.
The wise man built his house upon the rock,
And the rains came tumbling down.
OH, the rains came down as floods came up (do the hand
motions—you know you want to.)
The rains came down as the floods came up.
The rains came down as the floods came up,
And the wise man’s house stood FIRM.
Then, there’s the foolish man, same number of repetitions.
The foolish man built his house upon the sand….and the rains
came tumbling down..and the foolish man’s house went SPLAT!
The lesson? SO (third
verse)…Build your house on the Lord Jesus Christ, and the blessings come
tumbling down...OH, the blessings come down as the prayers go up. Repeat as necessary.
I like the song. I
loved singing SPLAT ridiculously loud in a church building. I haven’t thought
of that song in ages, until this week.
I have decided that I sympathize with the foolish
builder. Last week while working on our
remodeling gauntlet, I was taking what seemed the zillionth load of rubble to
the “burn pile.” I hoisted the wooden handles of the wheel barrow above my
head, grunted, and thought “WHO has the patience to build a house?” If you know
me, you would know that patience is not one of my strong points, and you might
have even discouraged Superhusband and me from taking on such a project. You
would have been completely justified in such discouragements. We are not
patient people. (For the record, I would not encourage any couple to
build/remodel a home until they’ve been married at least five years. Maybe
longer. It’s unreasonably hard and both parties develop the tendency to go
crazy at the same time. But I digress.)
I believe that patience is what the “foolish” builder
lacked. Both these guys built houses, a
hard enough task in itself. But what the wise one did was KEEP digging until he
had the right foundation. He didn’t stop
with the obvious. I like Luke’s version best when in verse 48 he records “He is
like a man building a house, who dug down deep and laid the foundation on
rock. When a flood came, the torrent
struck that house but could not shake it, because it was well built.” Contrast
that with the next verse where the other man “built a house on the ground
without a foundation.” This is interesting to me because the foolish builder
didn’t go out and find the most wishy-washy sand on which to build. He used the ground. I have often thought, “It’s the ground. You can’t get more firm than that.” But it’s
not true. Ask me about placing pillars
under a porch deck sometime, and I’ll tell you how NOT reliable the ground can
be. Then think about getting beyond that ground to bedrock—not 2 feet, not “til
you hit a pipe” but Fred Flintstone bedrock. That takes an awfully long
time. And what happened to the builders
was not normal, either. Who expects a
flood right after building their new
house? No one outside of Galveston,
Texas, I’d guess. But it flooded. And
the listeners to that parable learned what I need to be reminded of, in my
spiritual life as well as my vocational: The preparation is worth it. Whether I’m
building my faith or a house, digging deep makes all the difference.
And speaking of digging and faith, Superhusband and I are
becoming quite a focal point for our neighborhood “scavengers.” It seems the
faster we unload the rooms of their baggage, the faster people come out of the
woodwork to dig through the garbage.
This has had an effect on how I think about garbage and people.
I have had to “dig deep” figuratively in order to try to see
these people like God sees them. I don’t
know about you, but I’ve got a super-sized criticism switch in my brain. I can walk into a mall and immediately spot
the bad haircuts, poor lipstick choices, and not-so-skinny skinny jeans wearers
in the place. And all of those people
are ostensibly washed and of a high enough socio-economic class to “shop.” Not
so with the people who come to our yard.
(I’ll use initials here to protect the privacy of our
pickers) There’s T who drives a beat-up minivan and likes to stop by two or
three times a day when there’s a good pile out front. He likes our dog, and likes to let others do
the digging while he skims off the top.
There’s J who stopped to get scrap metal and wanted to make sure we
weren’t going to rezone our property for government housing. A girl J with her
mother stayed for over an hour picking up old fabric to make into purses. And
my personal favorite, L, who didn’t have money for a car, or clothes, but
walked to the tanning bed and back. These, along with the constant stream of
twenty-something ball players and unruly teens that come and go from the
apartments next door, make for a busy, distracting, and sometimes annoying
atmosphere. But I’ve started doing two
things to help me dig deep in my faith.
1) Every time I’m tempted to criticize a clothing choice (Particularly
extra-saggy pants. To quote the great Donna White “I just can’t with that.”) I
think, “I don’t know them, but God does.
He loves that kid. God made that kid on purpose to teach the world
something about Himself.” Now, I don’t believe that God promotes
baggy-pant-wearing, but I know full well that He does not include “baggy pants”
in His list of “reasons my child is far from Me.” My job is to discover what
God is trying to teach me through that person. Every time. Every person.
2) I have begun introducing myself to each of the scavengers
and handing them a card with a map and service times for our home
congregation. I really attempt to
remember that this one day, in front
of this one pile of garbage, may be
the only time I talk to this person my whole life. And if they remember one
thing, I want it to be about Love.
I am not saying this to brag. I am confessing that I should have done it
sooner. I am a full 34 and 3/4ths years
old, and I have just begun to reach out in my day to day life. And I’m not
where I should be, either. I have not
yet found the courage to say things like “Do you know Jesus?”—which is the real
reason we “church” anyway. But I’m pushing.
I’m digging. I’m getting down to
the rock of what’s important. Not
clothes, nor scrap, nor economic status, or tan level. But the people. Every person God brings to my patch of lawn
is a piece of Him that He’s entrusted me to influence this one time. What an
honor. What a God. What a job.
And when I think of what God did for me, it’s obvious what I
am in the story. If we turn this
scenario around, I would play the garbage.
God came through and picked ME. Little ol’ me. To do this great thing,
and to be married to Superhusband, and to talk to these people, and to live in
this house. He plucked me off the
rotting pile and said “There’s usefulness here. I’ll keep this one. In fact,
this one is so precious I’ll trade my life for it.” And that’s the miracle.
So I encourage you—when you feel the torrential rains coming,
and they will come—dig deep. Hit bottom. Level out. You may even have to lay on
the rock for a while. After that, you can begin to build a mansion out of
salvage.
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