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In the middle of winter, thirty years ago, on a Sunday, in Ashland, Kentucky, I met an angel. At least I think it was an angel. I can't be certain. But every time I think about it, and I often do, I'm convinced he was sent to observe our little congregation and to test us.

Sunday started out as one of those windy, cold mornings when you just didn't want to get out of bed. But church was calling, and I had a Sunday school class to teach. My wife, Darlene, and I hustled to get ourselves—and our two kids—ready for the day.

	Something wasn't right. It only took us seconds to follow the elderly man outside. But he had vanished. — Ed Chaffin

I was a student minister, interning at the local interdenominational church, and as you might suppose, I was always concerned about my ability to do my job. On that particular day my message centered on rendering service to our community and to each other. The lesson was designed to prepare the congregation for the sermon, which our senior minister would deliver.

Despite my nervousness, the class went well. The discussions were full of energy, and I thought we all had a handle on the idea of service to our fellow man. When the time arrived, we adjourned and flocked upstairs to the sanctuary. Everyone was happy that the building's heat pump worked better on the upper floors than in the basement, where the classrooms were located.

My usual job was to handle the pre-service business. I went through the morning's announcements and reported bits of news about the congregation. As I read through the notes I'd scribbled, my eyes happened to fix on the double entry doors at the back of the room. An elderly man had just entered from outside and, wearing an apologetic face, slowly made his way to a vacant seat about halfway down the center aisle.

Everyone in the room turned to watch the old man shuffle along. He was wearing soiled khaki trousers and dirty white canvas shoes with no socks. His shirt appeared to have been white at one time. For protection against the winter cold the man wore a gray button-up sweater, with holes in the elbows. His wrinkled face was chapped by the wind, and he wore several days' growth of beard. He carried a small burlap bag in his right hand.

People sitting around the stranger were scrunching their noses and waving their hands, as if to ward off flies. The old man certainly looked out of place among all the worshipers who sat there dressed in their finest clothes.

I finished my part of the day's service and the minister of music arose and walked regally to the podium. He laid out his notes and opened the hymnal. But then he stopped. The old man had just raised his hand.

"Yes?" the minister of music asked.

"May I say something?" the stranger said, his voice weak and strained.

Sneaking a look at his wristwatch, the song leader nodded his head.

Grasping the back of the pew ahead of him, the old man looked around at the congregation and nodded, smiling slightly. "It's very cold outside, and I'm so grateful that you've allowed me to get warm."

"We're glad to help," the minister of music said.

"You see, I'm just passing through town. I don't have a home. I happened to see your beautiful church, and since I was cold, it seemed natural to come in."

The minister of music now pointedly looked at his watch. Some members of the congregation shifted in their seats.

The old man continued, "As I said, I don't have a home. And, I'm very hungry. So, I was wondering … is there anyone who can help me get a meal or give me a few dollars to see me through until I find a place to stay?"

There was an awful silence. People looked at each other and shifted uncomfortably. Some turned and looked at the man as if he had told a dirty joke.

The minister of music's face was blank, but his fingers kept moving his notes and songbooks around on the angled podium.

No one spoke.

Finally, the minister of the church stood and looked around the congregation expectantly. But when no one said anything, he shrugged and sat back down, staring at the floor.

After a silence that seemed to last hours, the old man slowly shook his head, stepped out into the aisle, and began shuffling toward the exit doors.

Only when the doors had closed was the silence broken. People sighed. Some whispered to each other.

My wife nudged me in the ribs with a sharp elbow and said, "We can't just let that man go out into the cold. Stop him. He can come home with us."

I stood and was promptly joined by a friend of ours who ran a small store. We dashed through the doors and outside into the cold wind. Less than a minute had elapsed. But the old man was nowhere in sight.

We walked all around the church, looking here and there. But he was nowhere to be found. Where had he gone?

My friend and I looked at each other. Something wasn't right. It only took us seconds to follow the elderly man outside. But he had vanished.

Feeling bad, my friend and I turned and went back inside the building. The sanctuary was now buzzing with the sound of voices debating the events of the last several minutes. "Should we have done something?" or "Well, he should go and find a job." Someone else said, "But, we're Christians. We should have done something for him."

One lady said, "How dare the man come in here like that. We don't even know him."

(To be fair, it was 1973 in an affluent area of central Kentucky—conservative Christians didn't think that much about helping the homeless in those days. But that is no defense.)

Finally, the minister stood and looked at his congregation. The voices died down. He said, "Something terrible happened here today. We missed an opportunity to prove ourselves, and I fear we may never receive it again."

"What do you mean?" someone demanded.

"I mean, I believe we received a visit from an angel today. My mother taught me, when I was just a boy, that God sends his angels down to look after us and to guide us … but he also sends them to test us, to see what kind of people we really are. I think we were tested today. And I think we failed."

That's when he opened his Bible and read: "Let brotherly love continue. Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." (Heb. 13: 1-2).

With those words, the minister closed his Bible, sat down, and hung his head.

I have recalled that day many times as I grew older and developed my own ministry. Who was that raggedy old man? Why had he come to our church on the very day that the sermon was to focus on service to others? Was he really an angel?

Somehow, I believe he was. At least, he was to me.

Editor's Note: Today, Ed Chaffin is the pastor of Contact Bible Congregation in Eclectic, Alabama, where he shares this story every chance he gets.

A Christian Reader original article.

Copyright © 2003 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian magazine (formerly Christian Reader).
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