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On that busy Monday morning, the thing that I wanted to hear least was the buzzer telling me that I had a caller who needed some of my time. But it happened!
The receptionist said in her pleasant voice, "You have a gentleman waiting to see you." I had thought a thousand times that I should tell her to try to distinguish between my callers by referring to some of them as "men" and some "gentlemen." I thought that this system would help prepare me for the interview.
As a social worker on the staff of a large inner-city church in Fort Worth, Texas I had all kinds of people coming to my office. The freight train hitchhikers were our most frequent "customers," but we also had the highway hitchhiker since we were located at the crossroad of the freeways. This type of caller usually was fairly easy to distinguish, but our receptionist called them all "gentlemen."
At my busy times, I felt a bit annoyed at the interference they caused in my work, but there were a few times when I had the courage to pray: Please, Lord, keep me from putting people in categories and help me see them all as equals, as Jesus did when he was on earth.
This particular morning was not one of those days that I felt like praying such a prayer. I just wanted to get my desk work done.
As I opened my office door, I knew that there was a 90 percent chance that the "gentleman" would be a transient; and I had my speech ready - one that would send him on his way downtown to the rescue mission. Before I could open my mouth, however, I was being introduced to a distinguish looking man dressed in a striking, gray plaid suit (one like I had always wanted). The colors in his shirt and tie were perfectly matched. He was well built and handsome. As he spoke, his deep, well-modulated voice impressed me so much that I was taken aback and stammered a bit as I invited him into my office. He was so immaculate and well-ordered in behavior that I found myself apologizing for the clutter in the office.
It wasn't until he was seated that I noted the small, soiled, and rugged red Bible that he held in his hands. That little inexpensive item hardly complemented the rest of his attire - that is, not until I heard his story.
Since it was obvious that he was a bit uncomfortable and since I could tell that the red Bible was the center of his attention, I focused my mind on it and inquired about it. He quickly admitted that he had come to our church for the express purpose of giving it to a minister and was going to make the presentation to me since our pastor was not available.
I knew now that the pile of work on my desk could wait. My curiosity and interest had been captivated by this man of distinction who wanted to make a ceremony out of giving a preacher a cheap, worn-out, faded red Bible. Of all the things I needed in my library, another Bible was not one of them!
The well-controlled voice soon lost some of its depth and resonance. He was not overcome with emotion as he began his story, but it was obvious that he was certainly performing a deed and telling a story that had deep significance for him. His feeling charged the room, and I sat in expectation as he began.
My first fear was that the spell of this room might be broken by another buzz from the receptionist. I knew that I couldn't stand that; so I signaled her to hold all calls. Then he proceeded.
"When I was a small boy, my mother ran a boarding house for railroad men over on Main Street, just three blocks from this church. To help my mother out, I used to polish shoes for the men for a nickel a pair. I never had shoes, myself, except in the coldest winter. Overalls were my seven-day-a-week uniform, sometimes with a shirt but usually with none. Haircuts were rare. Treats and toys were anything I could find on the streets to play with. Neighborhood fights, brawls, and rumbles were part of my social life. It was plenty rough, and I guess I looked the part.
"I can't remember having anything very beautiful ever come into my life until one day when my scrounging through the neighborhood brought me right over here to St. Louis Street, and the day just happened to be Sunday. All days were alike to me in the summertime. And it was summer. The church windows were open, and singing was filling the air around me. I was enthralled with the sound of it. I had never heard anything like it before in all my life. I stopped dead in my tracks and listened. It was beautiful."
At this point in his story, tears were rolling down his cheeks and he wiped them away with an embarrassed look. By this time, I was so caught up in his story that he began to feel that those tears no longer mattered. He sensed my understanding and concern.
"The beauty of those tones set my imagination wild," he continued, "and I stood there envisioning that the church must be filled with angels, for surely only angels could sing so beautifully. My heart and soul never responded to anything like that before. I immediately sat down on the curb and listened. I listened and I listened. I never tired of it. My soul was being filled with beauty and I knew it and I loved it - and I was grateful. I was so glad that the church was there and that there was a curb for boys like me to sit on.
"I began to keep track of days; and when Sunday came around, I would go sit on the curb and wait for the music to start. Each Sunday it seemed lovelier. Each Sunday my heart seemed fuller of beauty. And I continued to be glad that I could listen. I started watching people as they came and went and wondered how it must feel to be able to go into the church and watch the people sing as well as listen to them. I know that I could never be so fortunate. I wasn't bitter, nor hurt, and really not too disappointed. I was just glad that no one chased me away from the curb where I could listen as long as I wanted to.
"I would hate for winters to come, because that meant that all church windows were closed and the music couldn't drift out to my curb; but spring and summer brought my recital of heavenly music back to me.
"I had a real scare one Sunday morning when the tall Negro man, who always stood at the door, came across the street to my curb. I was afraid that he was going to ask me leave. Rather, he approached me gently and asked if I wouldn't like to go inside the church and sit with the people. I thought that he must be joking, but I tested him and said, 'If you think it will be all right.' He assured me that no one would mind. I can't describe what I felt as he ushered me in - the beauty of well dressed people; the smiling faces, the stained-glass windows, the height of the ceiling, the dark glistening woodwork, the pipes of the organ, and, most of all, the grand music from the voices in the choir. I was enraptured - a dirty, ragged boy sitting in the midst of such beauty. I had to cry.
"I didn't move a muscle. I was mesmerized by the sights and sounds and fragrances. Pretty women smell so pretty. I was in another world - away from railroad men with their loud talk, smoky smell, dirty clothes, and cheap conversation. What ecstasy! And then it was over.
"Not entirely over, because the janitor walked out with me and told me to return next Sunday and come an hour earlier and he would show me another part of the church. The longest week of my life followed.
"The next Sunday I washed my face, my hands, and my feet. John, the Negro doorman, greeted me as it I had been delivered to the door in the finest chaffered carriage. He ushered me grandly to the Junior Sunday School department, where I was met by a lady with an angelic face and gracious manners. She made me feel as if she cared. And once again I was in the presence of pretty clothes, pretty music, and happy faces. I kept thinking that this was a dream. But it happened Sunday after Sunday after Sunday. And I became a part - a part of a church, a part of a Sunday School department, a part of a crowd of lovely people.
"The thrill of all thrills came weeks later when this lovely lady called out my name and asked my to come stand beside her - right up there in front of all those other boys and girls. I was being recognized; I was up front; and all eyes were on me. Can anyone ever describe how a boy feels when he is made to feel important? My heart pounded. I choked back tears. I stood uncomfortably on one foot and then the other. It was an exhilarating moment. I loved the discomfort of being uneasy for such a brief span of total importance. The she said, 'Since you have been regular in attendance for thirteen Sundays, we, the Junior Department of Broadway Baptist Church, want you to have your own Bible - one that you can read every day at home and one that you can bring to Sunday School every Lord's Day.' This was too much! - my own Bible and a red one. It was the most beautiful book I had ever seen - more that I would have dared wish for.
"And to add to my ecstasy, she reported that our pastor had autographed it for me. Sure enough, there in the front he had written my name and then signed his. I wanted to cry - but not in front of all the kids. I saved that for the privacy of my soul - and I did. On the way home, I found a big tree and hid behind it and wept and wept. I was so grateful for beautiful things - music, people, faces, books."
The story of the little, faded red Bible was beginning to open up; but why the treasure was to be presented to me was still a mystery. I thought that is must be one of his fondest possessions. Why would he want to give it to a stranger?
He continued by saying: "In a few years, a man in the church began to talk to me about the love of God and how Jesus had been sent to give all people eternal life and to give them peace in their hearts. I did struggle to try to understand. He was patient, and I was eager. Soon the Spirit of God revealed the blessed truth of salvation to my heart and mind, and I accepted Christ as my Savior.
"The pastor baptized me and pasted here in the back of this Bible is the pretty little card that he sent me, telling the date of my conversion and baptism. No one will ever know how much this great old church has meant to me. I have completed all the education I need or want. My wife and children and I are well-situated in a lovely home and in a lovely church on the edge of town. We are active in every phase of our church life. We are prospering spiritually and materially every day. We are totally happy.
"The other day I noticed that the little red Bible had been hidden behind a stack of books in our den. No telling how long it had been out of sight, and I suddenly realized that it no longer belonged to me. I wanted Broadway to have it. That is where it belongs.
I couldn't keep from interrupting him at this point to ask why we needed it more then he. He had a ready answer.
"This old church has had many chances to move out from this downtown area and leave the neighborhood of the inner city with all its problems, its dirty apartments, and high crime rate; but she stayed. She needs to stay right here because, you see, you never can tell when another little dirty, ragged boy might come and sit on your curb to listen to the beautiful music. If you weren't here, there would be none for him to hear.
"I just want this little red Bible to be a reminder to the pastors of this church that one day, a long time ago, a rough little kid was filled with beauty, and that there are other dirty waifs nearby who need the same feeling he had from listening, attending, and believing. I pray God will use this little red Bible to the end."
With this, my friend shook my hand firmly and meaningfully and said, "May God bless the church that stays where the people need beauty the most." With that he walked out of my office.
I stood in wonderment, holding the little red Bible in my hand. I watched the vigorous, prosperous young man leave my office and marveled at how he had transformed from a dirty little bootblack to an eloquent, warm, successful man. The little red Bible tells the whole story.
305 West Broadway • Fort Worth, Texas 76104 • 817-336-5761