On a week-long mission trip just outside of Port-Au-Prince, Haiti, Jesus showed up and shared a powerful ministry lesson with me and my team. Allow me to explain.
Our team gathered every morning for a brief devotional, then we walked to worksites and helped 1) mix cement, 2) build walls, and 3) sweat a lot. The Haitians we worked beside did an amazing job on the first two; I did the best on the last item.
On the fourth morning, the devotion time focused on Jesus’ familiar words in Matthew 25 about the sheep and goats. Specifically, we focused on a frequently forgotten word.
Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’
The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ (Matthew 25:37-40)
The forgotten word is “one,” found in the last sentence: “whatever you did for one of the least of these …” This single word creates a sense of urgency. Or at least it should.
In ministries that directly serve people, such as the one I work for, the desire to “be Jesus” for people acts as a rallying cry. While this sounds good, did Jesus ever suggest we should pretend to be him? A better approach exists.
Jesus clearly says that when we serve someone marginalized or forgotten, we actually serve him. The Message translation stresses this concept: “Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me—you did it to me.” (v. 40) So, our team agreed, it seemed like we should go out into the day and look for Jesus. He’d likely be found as someone with a simple, personal need that we could meet.
Certainly an intriguing challenge. Imagine how it felt the next day when Jesus unexpectedly showed up. Fortunately, I wasn’t too distracted by cement work.
Day five featured a schedule change; a visit to an orphanage to share a short Bible lesson, work on crafts, and play a lot. Yes, I again led the way in sweating. But it was wildly worth it; the 50 Haitian children were equal parts beautiful and energetic. When we inflated several beach balls, the place erupted in exhilarating chaos.
Except for one little boy. Maybe two years old and not much taller than a beach ball, I noticed him go to a far corner of the wall and sit down. At that same moment, a thought flashed through my mind: Go over to him. Prompted by curiosity, I walked toward him and noticed his tears. After years in children’s ministry, and experience as a parent, I knew that these were not tears caused by an injury, a fight, or being wronged in any way. This was sadness working its way from the inside out. In the midst of all the fun going on around him, what could make him feel so sad?
I speak no Haitian Creole, and he spoke no English, so I couldn’t ask him. The only think I could do was to sit beside him. The longer we sat together, completely quiet, the sadder I felt. My thoughts focused on what it must feel like to be an orphan, especially at two years of age. The loneliness. The lack of affection. I tapped his tiny hand just once with my little finger, and he held onto my pinky. Soon I noticed the tears in my own eyes. Then he noticed, and squeezed harder.
Another minute or two went by, and then he started to squeeze my finger rapidly. We looked at one another; he smiled as he stood up, gave my neck a long hug, flashed me another big smile, then ran off to chase a beach ball.
The next thought to enter my mind: You comforted me.
After all, this little guy easily qualifies as “one of the least of these.” Quoting the subtitle from a new book by Shane Claibourne and Tony Campolo, what if Jesus really meant what he said?
Fast-forward to yesterday.
Because of a recent ankle surgery, I currently wheel through my days with my leg held up on a scooter. As I left work yesterday, several gentlemen blocked the door of our building and the path to the portion of the sidewalk with a ramp that I needed to scoot down. None of them noticed me ungracefully open the door and wheel out until I said “excuse me.” They parted and gravity took me down the ramp to my car, parked only fifteen feet away. As I opened the trunk to stow my now-folded scooter, I began to wobble. Balancing on one foot while lifting a scooter into a car should be an Olympic event. I’m sure I began to sweat as I regained my equilibrium.
Then I heard a lady say, “Sweetie, are you going to make it?” as she walked toward me to help.
“I think so,” I said while finally lowering the trunk. “Thank you, though, for asking.”
Some details surrounding that scene will help clarify. The group of guys busy talking as I was hopping on one leg with a cast on my foot and a scooter in my arms was a group of pastors, in our building for a denomination meeting. The lady who had parked her car and offered help was a complete stranger who I’ve never seen before. Yes, I admit to feeling disappointed that the group of pastors was too busy to help—but grateful that the lady cared. And I will avoid making any reference to the Good Samaritan story.
Instead, I thought of my encounter in Haiti. How often am I too absorbed in sweating over my organization, my ministry, or my plans to notice chances to walk over and help someone? So today, and every day, it seems like I should go out into the day and look for Jesus. He’ll likely be found as someone with a simple, personal need that I can meet.
David is senior editor of the children’s ministry area for BuildingChurchLeaders.com; he is a mentor to a first-grade boy and serves as president of Kids Hope USA, a national nonprofit organization that partners local churches with elementary schools to provide mentors for at-risk students;. Prior to this assignment, David led Promiseland, the children’s ministry at Willow Creek Community Church in Illinois. David is the author of Lessons Kids Need to Learn (2012) and lives in Grand Haven, Michigan, with his wife, Becky, son, Scott, and daughter, Erin.
