Have you ever believed something, only to find out that it wasn’t true? Let me tell you about a country church that was having an old-fashioned mission festival. It was, in the life of the congregation, a big deal. For a year men and women of the parish had been planning, working, cooking, and cleaning for the expected influx of visitors. Missionaries were brought in to recount their stories of global witnessing; speakers were imported to enthuse, encourage, and inspire. Everything had gone according to plan. Even the weather seemed to cooperate with sunny skies and temperatures neither too hot nor too cold.
Everything was perfect except for one fellow who hung around on the outskirts of the festivities. His clothing was torn and tattered, his appearance grimy and grubby. His face sported a week’s worth of stubble. No, this was not the fashionable, unshaved look of the men’s clothing catalogues; this guy was just grungy. Those who wandered near him were able to share, and they meant it quite literally, "That guy stinks." In short, the common consensus was that the man was not "one of them."
Now, I wouldn’t have you think, not for a moment, that the fellow who was not "one of them," was in the least bit intrusive. He wasn’t. He didn’t panhandle. He didn’t look longingly when the plates of food were handed out. He didn’t bother the children, or the women. He just was just there. Without any apparent purpose, he stuck around. Never participating. Never getting involved. He was just there. Of course, most of the time the outsider was forgotten. The speakers were stupendous; the music was magnificent. Everything was moving just as it had been planned toward the festival’s crescendo, a climax that was to take place on the last day of the festival.
When that day came, the gathered souls sang with a greater gusto than anyone could remember; the celebrated choir was dynamic in its praises of the Divine. Then came the moment they had all been waiting for: the message of mission. That was when, from the back of the gathering wandered the fellow who was “not one of them.” People exchanged looks of shock. Wives whispered to their husbands, “Somebody needs to stop him.” Husbands nodded, but nobody moved. Not when he reached the front of the congregation. Not when he stepped into the pulpit. Not even when he began to speak.
The man, who was "not one of them," quoted the words of Peter, “I now realize how true it is that God does not show favoritism, but accepts men from every nation who fear Him and do what is right.” Then he continued, “This week I was physically among you, but I was never, as so many of you have been saying, ‘one of you.’ You made my exclusion painfully obvious. Nobody included me or invited me to the activities. No one shared a meal. Yes, one person did give me a dollar bill, and two people asked if I wanted to read a brochure about the church. But that was all. Most of you averted your eyes and made me invisible.” And then the pastor who, along with not being "one of them" was also not what he seemed, preached a wonderful sermon about how the Lord Jesus came to seek and save sinners, all sinners.
