One evening, a couple of weeks ago, I went to a local funeral home to pay my respects to the grieving family of a deceased church member. When I pulled my car into the funeral home parking lot, a large crowd had already gathered there for the receiving hours. As I turned into the only vacant parking space I could find, my headlight beams flashed across the dirt field adjacent to the funeral home, coming to rest on a car positioned perpendicular to mine. The car was just sitting there in the field motionless, with an older woman at the wheel.
Apparently, her intended destination had been the funeral home parking lot, but somehow she had taken a wrong turn off the main road and wound up in this vacant lot. As she attempted to circle around and get back out on the highway, she got her tires stuck in a wet mud hole. Whenever she pushed down on the accelerator, her tires would just spin ‘round and ‘round, as her car became increasingly entrenched in the muck and mire.
As I got out of my car and stepped forward for a closer look, I heard the woman’s desperate cry, “Can you help me?” For a split second, I thought about the fact that here I was on my way into the funeral home, wearing a suit and tie and dress shoes. Once inside, not only would I be ministering to the grieving family, but I also would see (and be seen) by many people from the community. “If I go down into this field to help this lady, then I’m going to wind up a muddy mess,” I thought. “Surely, there’s someone else that could help her.”
Just about the time that my rationalization tried to set in, another line of thinking invaded my thoughts. “No, this is the ministry opportunity that the Lord has put before you tonight. How can you dare go into that funeral home presuming to minister to someone else, when you’re not even willing to stop and minister to the immediate need that’s right in front of you? After all, there are dozens of people presently ministering to that family inside, but you’re the only one out here with this lady who’s stuck in the mud. Furthermore, if it was your wife or your mother stuck in the mud, wouldn’t you appreciate it if some stranger stopped to help them, rather than just standing there trying to find reasons why he shouldn’t?”
So, yielding to my conscience, I made my descent down into the muddy field. Stepping lightly, so as to avoid getting muddy—ha, ha—I very quickly realized that my efforts to stay clean were nothing more than a futile effort at self-deception. As I took my place behind the immobilized vehicle in order to give it a shove, I immediately learned that my feet could not get any traction unless I stepped down into the actual trench carved out by the car’s tires. When I did so, I found myself standing in ankle deep mud. (This was a sensation I had not known in almost twelve years. In Florida, the soil is sandy and water evaporates quickly. So, it’s been a while since I’ve had to contend with real mud.) Once my shoes were fully baptized by immersion, however, I knew there was no turning back.
First I tried to rock the car back and forth as the driver pushed the accelerator. But the car wouldn’t budge, although several flying flecks of earth found their way to my face, my mouth, and even in my hair.
Then, I found a flat stone that I placed under one of the tires in order to help gain some traction. But that didn’t work either. Then, the lady told me she had a cardboard box in her trunk. I got it out and took it apart, flattening it in order to lay it under the tire. Again, this didn’t work. The tire just chewed up the cardboard and kept getting deeper and deeper in the mud.
Finally, I had to admit that I was failing in my singular efforts to rescue this poor lady. Reluctantly, I made my way over to the funeral home, where everyone else was still nice and clean. When I appeared out of the darkness, I must have been quite a sight to behold, especially from the ankles down. I told a couple of funeral home employees about the situation and asked if they could help. Without hesitation, they came to my aid, even though—like me—they were all dressed up and certainly hadn’t planned on an activity like this. As the three of us made our way down into the muddy field, I took my familiar place in the deep trench once again. Somehow the other two guys—much smarter than me—managed to find less muddy spots on which to stand. The three of us shoved and shoved and, finally, the car began to budge. Then, all of a sudden, it sprang forth…like a caged lion set free! Like a prisoner breaking out of Alcatraz! Like Superman leaping from a tall building! Like a newborn babe coming forth from the womb! Like Lazarus miraculously coming forth from the tomb! (OK, enough metaphors already!)
Momentarily, the lady hesitated, wanting to stop the car and thank the three musketeers who rescued her. But, instantaneously, we all three yelled in unison, “Keep going! Keep going!” (We didn’t want to have to do a repeat performance.) As the lady made her way out onto the hard-surface highway, the three of us made our way up out of the black lagoon. Less muddy than me, my two compatriots went on back inside the funeral home, returning to their jobs, while I lingered in the parking lot a bit longer.
After several minutes of walking around, trying to knock flecks of dried mud off of my clothes and out of my hair, and trying to get the chunks of caked mud off my shoes, I finally gave up. (Fortunately, the mud was the same color as my hair color. So the muddy flecks on my head looked natural.) But the mud was simply not going to come off those shoes. (I wound up throwing them away later.) So I went on into the funeral home, found the restroom, washed my hands, and proceeded to do my pastoral thing, visiting and conversing with others, muddy shoes and all. I’m sure some folks were probably whispering, “Isn’t that the new pastor at Mount Hermon?”… “Mmm, not a very neat dresser, is he?” … “Poor guy, I wonder where he’s from?”… “I heard he’s from the hills of Kentucky”… “It figures.”
Anyway, what lessons did I learn from my recent escapade in the mud?
First of all, I was graphically reminded of the fact that if you really want to help people in this life, oftentimes you’ve got to get your hands (or, in my case, feet) dirty. We can’t always do ministry from a safe distance. Ministering to others means going to where the people are, and getting down in the trenches with them. That’s exactly what Jesus did when He came to Bethlehem’s manager. It’s also what He did when He went to Calvary’s Cross. All that Jesus went through—the humiliation, the pain, the suffering, the sacrifice—reminds us that ministry doesn’t always come in neat, tidy and safe little packages. Sometimes it comes in the most inconvenient forms and at the most inconvenient times. But, we have to remember that ministry is not about us, it’s about other people. It’s not about our convenience, it’s about their needs.
Secondly, my mud bath incident also reminded me that when we set out to do a task, we often need others to help us. It’s humbling to ask for the assistance of others, isn’t it? Sometimes, we’d rather just do it ourselves. But when we do that, we often rob others—and ourselves—of a great blessing. Remember, we weren’t meant to serve God in isolation. Neither were we intended to carry the weight of the whole world solely on our own two shoulders. Don’t forget that God is most delighted when His people come together, shoulder to shoulder, working for the common good, devoted to a common cause, headed in the direction of a common goal. Have you been guilty of trying to do it all yourself? Why is that? Are you seeking all the glory for yourself? Do you think no one else can do it as well as you can? Once again, remember, it’s not about you. It’s about what God wants to do in the lives of everyone. And, sometimes, in order to help others, you need others to come alongside you to help you. That’s the way God planned it. Truly, no man is an island to himself. We’re all in this thing together.
Think about that this week. And if you happen to come across some poor soul that’s stuck in the mud, don't be afraid to get your feet dirty. And don’t be shy about asking others to get down in the trenches with you and help you push.
Pastor Danny
Apparently, her intended destination had been the funeral home parking lot, but somehow she had taken a wrong turn off the main road and wound up in this vacant lot. As she attempted to circle around and get back out on the highway, she got her tires stuck in a wet mud hole. Whenever she pushed down on the accelerator, her tires would just spin ‘round and ‘round, as her car became increasingly entrenched in the muck and mire.
As I got out of my car and stepped forward for a closer look, I heard the woman’s desperate cry, “Can you help me?” For a split second, I thought about the fact that here I was on my way into the funeral home, wearing a suit and tie and dress shoes. Once inside, not only would I be ministering to the grieving family, but I also would see (and be seen) by many people from the community. “If I go down into this field to help this lady, then I’m going to wind up a muddy mess,” I thought. “Surely, there’s someone else that could help her.”
Just about the time that my rationalization tried to set in, another line of thinking invaded my thoughts. “No, this is the ministry opportunity that the Lord has put before you tonight. How can you dare go into that funeral home presuming to minister to someone else, when you’re not even willing to stop and minister to the immediate need that’s right in front of you? After all, there are dozens of people presently ministering to that family inside, but you’re the only one out here with this lady who’s stuck in the mud. Furthermore, if it was your wife or your mother stuck in the mud, wouldn’t you appreciate it if some stranger stopped to help them, rather than just standing there trying to find reasons why he shouldn’t?”
So, yielding to my conscience, I made my descent down into the muddy field. Stepping lightly, so as to avoid getting muddy—ha, ha—I very quickly realized that my efforts to stay clean were nothing more than a futile effort at self-deception. As I took my place behind the immobilized vehicle in order to give it a shove, I immediately learned that my feet could not get any traction unless I stepped down into the actual trench carved out by the car’s tires. When I did so, I found myself standing in ankle deep mud. (This was a sensation I had not known in almost twelve years. In Florida, the soil is sandy and water evaporates quickly. So, it’s been a while since I’ve had to contend with real mud.) Once my shoes were fully baptized by immersion, however, I knew there was no turning back.
First I tried to rock the car back and forth as the driver pushed the accelerator. But the car wouldn’t budge, although several flying flecks of earth found their way to my face, my mouth, and even in my hair.
Then, I found a flat stone that I placed under one of the tires in order to help gain some traction. But that didn’t work either. Then, the lady told me she had a cardboard box in her trunk. I got it out and took it apart, flattening it in order to lay it under the tire. Again, this didn’t work. The tire just chewed up the cardboard and kept getting deeper and deeper in the mud.
Finally, I had to admit that I was failing in my singular efforts to rescue this poor lady. Reluctantly, I made my way over to the funeral home, where everyone else was still nice and clean. When I appeared out of the darkness, I must have been quite a sight to behold, especially from the ankles down. I told a couple of funeral home employees about the situation and asked if they could help. Without hesitation, they came to my aid, even though—like me—they were all dressed up and certainly hadn’t planned on an activity like this. As the three of us made our way down into the muddy field, I took my familiar place in the deep trench once again. Somehow the other two guys—much smarter than me—managed to find less muddy spots on which to stand. The three of us shoved and shoved and, finally, the car began to budge. Then, all of a sudden, it sprang forth…like a caged lion set free! Like a prisoner breaking out of Alcatraz! Like Superman leaping from a tall building! Like a newborn babe coming forth from the womb! Like Lazarus miraculously coming forth from the tomb! (OK, enough metaphors already!)
Momentarily, the lady hesitated, wanting to stop the car and thank the three musketeers who rescued her. But, instantaneously, we all three yelled in unison, “Keep going! Keep going!” (We didn’t want to have to do a repeat performance.) As the lady made her way out onto the hard-surface highway, the three of us made our way up out of the black lagoon. Less muddy than me, my two compatriots went on back inside the funeral home, returning to their jobs, while I lingered in the parking lot a bit longer.
After several minutes of walking around, trying to knock flecks of dried mud off of my clothes and out of my hair, and trying to get the chunks of caked mud off my shoes, I finally gave up. (Fortunately, the mud was the same color as my hair color. So the muddy flecks on my head looked natural.) But the mud was simply not going to come off those shoes. (I wound up throwing them away later.) So I went on into the funeral home, found the restroom, washed my hands, and proceeded to do my pastoral thing, visiting and conversing with others, muddy shoes and all. I’m sure some folks were probably whispering, “Isn’t that the new pastor at Mount Hermon?”… “Mmm, not a very neat dresser, is he?” … “Poor guy, I wonder where he’s from?”… “I heard he’s from the hills of Kentucky”… “It figures.”
Anyway, what lessons did I learn from my recent escapade in the mud?
First of all, I was graphically reminded of the fact that if you really want to help people in this life, oftentimes you’ve got to get your hands (or, in my case, feet) dirty. We can’t always do ministry from a safe distance. Ministering to others means going to where the people are, and getting down in the trenches with them. That’s exactly what Jesus did when He came to Bethlehem’s manager. It’s also what He did when He went to Calvary’s Cross. All that Jesus went through—the humiliation, the pain, the suffering, the sacrifice—reminds us that ministry doesn’t always come in neat, tidy and safe little packages. Sometimes it comes in the most inconvenient forms and at the most inconvenient times. But, we have to remember that ministry is not about us, it’s about other people. It’s not about our convenience, it’s about their needs.
Secondly, my mud bath incident also reminded me that when we set out to do a task, we often need others to help us. It’s humbling to ask for the assistance of others, isn’t it? Sometimes, we’d rather just do it ourselves. But when we do that, we often rob others—and ourselves—of a great blessing. Remember, we weren’t meant to serve God in isolation. Neither were we intended to carry the weight of the whole world solely on our own two shoulders. Don’t forget that God is most delighted when His people come together, shoulder to shoulder, working for the common good, devoted to a common cause, headed in the direction of a common goal. Have you been guilty of trying to do it all yourself? Why is that? Are you seeking all the glory for yourself? Do you think no one else can do it as well as you can? Once again, remember, it’s not about you. It’s about what God wants to do in the lives of everyone. And, sometimes, in order to help others, you need others to come alongside you to help you. That’s the way God planned it. Truly, no man is an island to himself. We’re all in this thing together.
Think about that this week. And if you happen to come across some poor soul that’s stuck in the mud, don't be afraid to get your feet dirty. And don’t be shy about asking others to get down in the trenches with you and help you push.
Pastor Danny
