All great literature is one of two stories: a man goes on a journey, or a stranger comes to town.
Leo Tolstoy
Perhaps the story begins the day his sentence ended, when the drug lord crept out of prison with the clothes on his back and the sun on his face, blinded and blinking and grateful for freedom, as he ambled toward the homeless shelter, without money or game plan.
Or maybe the story starts when a stranger came to town, a man who relinquished everything to dwell among outcasts, men without table or pillow, souls who stepped from the streets into the shelter, eager for a bowl of thin soup, a crust of bread, and a cot to lay their head.
The stranger leaned in and listened to their stories, and they were unaccustomed to being truly heard. They shared long-winded tales, and soon the stranger shared the hope he found only in Christ.
Some dismissed his invitation to come to Jesus.
In fact, most did.
Several, however, pressed him for details. So the stranger opened his worn Bible and read the gospels; his voice strong and sure.
Tired, toothless, and defeated men wept.
Weeks passed, and one Sunday morning, as the sun rose, the stranger returned to the shelter and offered the men a ride to church. His invitation was met with raised eyebrows and wagging fingers.
Invitations to Sunday worship are not done here. It is too dangerous, some said.
The stranger met their resistance with only a smile as he opened the sedan’s rear door, and with a broad sweep of his arm, bid his guests to buckle up, soon treating three famished men to a hearty breakfast.
As the stranger bowed to say grace, his guests, wide-eyed, removed their ball caps.
These men did not imagine they deserved such kindness, as they wolfed down scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast, gulping coffee vigorously, until satisfied.
And then they went to church.
///
One day, the stranger rose to greet the drug lord, a new face at the homeless shelter. The stranger recognized this man as one of God’s image bearers, a person like any other, with a beating heart and restless soul.
The drug lord was disarmed by the stranger’s calm gaze, the kindness in his eyes, and the strength of his handshake.
After a week’s worth of observation, the drug lord, a clam, began to slowly open his shell. He could not help himself; something about the stranger bred trust.
This was new and uncomfortable territory, speaking the shadows of his sketchy life aloud, with a perfect stranger. Yet gradually, a vulnerability–and yes, a friendship– blossomed.
The stranger spoke of God as though he knew him, as he unashamedly read the Bible aloud.
Oh, how the drug lord longed to believe that this Jesus could rescue someone as unrighteous as he.
It seemed unfathomable.
Until the restaurant.
///
One evening, the stranger invited him to dinner. A reservations-required establishment: table linens starched white, iced water served in heavy goblets, tasteful piano music swirling, serving as a peaceful backdrop rather than a deafening pulse.
There was an unspoken dress code, and the maître d’ clearly had no qualms dismissing riffraff.
So the unlikely duo arrived—the young, handsome stranger man, in his pressed Oxford and khakis, and the drug lord, clad in a short-sleeve t-shirt, dusty and torn, tattoos running from wrist to neck; crumpled shorts that had seen finer days.
The maître d’ took one look at the drug lord, and wasted not a second.
We have a dress code here, he said, as he peered over his glasses in disgust. You must leave.
The drug lord did not need to be told twice. He felt the shame bearing down, and abruptly turned for the door when his friend stopped him.
Wait, he said.
Stepping between the drug lord and the maître d ‘, the stranger said, This man is my guest.
The maitre d’ flushed. I beg your pardon, Sir, he said, bowing ever so slightly before the well-dressed man.
Pulling two fine menus from the rack, he said, Right this way.
In a flash, the former drug lord had eyes to see.
God had made a way for filthy rags to stand in his presence: a people redeemed, welcomed, and beloved.
Tears streamed down his face as he embraced the truth: God looks at his chosen ones, all those who turn in faith to Christ Jesus, and rather than seeing their sins and tattered garments, he only sees his crucified Son, alive; risen; magnificent.
3 For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God. 4 When Christ who is your life appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.
Colossians 3:3-4
The Palest Ink 