A surreal encounter
I was watching 7th Heaven last night with Jill when our doorbell rang. I came downstairs to a fast-talking person who had two candles in his hands, and asked which one I liked better. I was just kind of floored (and it takes a lot for me to lose my composure) and he said, "Don't worry, we're not selling candles, we just want to show you the new Kirby vacuum cleaner. You don't mind if we show it to you, do you?"
Normally, I'd have said, "Well, yes, I do mind," but I my head was still spinning from how quickly this conversation was happening that before I knew it, two sales reps--a man and a woman no more than 21 years old--were on their way into my home and setting up a truly majestic vacuum cleaner. The fellow who had done the initial bit with the candles was apparently the boss and these two were now going to demonstrate and try to sell this vacuum cleaner.
My first thought was "Oh, no. How did I get myself into this? How long will it take for them to leave?" But sometimes God is in the interruptions, you know. And I wondered how often these folks, salespeople who constantly must try to penetrate the near-impregnable privacy of suburbia, are treated as people, much less received hospitably. So I asked how they enjoyed their work, offered them a drink.
They demonstrated their vacuum, though it quickly became evident we wouldn't buy it--even though it was really an amazing vacuum cleaner. They put little filters into the cleaner, rather than a bag, and would pull the filters out to demonstrate how much dirt it picked up from our apparently clean carpet. They poured baking powder on our carpet, had me try to vacuum it up with our current vacuum cleaner (a Hoover affectionately known as "Big Blue"), and then vacuumed where I had just vacuumed and pulled up so much more baking soda. They vacuumed our mattress for dustmites. They vacuumed and vacuumed and vacuumed.
But at the beginning of the conversation, I mentioned that I was a pastor. And interspersed with the vacuum-talk was talk about the fact this young woman had been thrown out of her home a few years back. The young man, father of an 8-month-old girl, wondered what it meant to be baptized or to have his baby baptized. The girl wondered about how preachers get paid--was it from "the tip basket" that gets passed around during church or some other way? We talked about how each of us has a job where people sometimes ignore you, shut you out, or at the very least aren't buying what you're selling.
In all, I hope that they left feeling loved. I hope they left knowing someone was onto their schtick but loved them anyway. After all, isn't that what the Father does for us? We're all essentially vacuum cleaner salespeople, trying to sell enough to earn the all-expenses-paid trip to the Bahamas or Vegas or wherever it is this month. We call it different things, more respectable things, perhaps, but we creep around the earth trying to do the same thing, to make what we consider a nice life for ourselves. But the Father knows that there's a different, higher way to live; yet He patiently listens as we cajole and plead for Him to give us what we want, telling him why it's so much better than His other plans for us. Most often, He's not buying either; but He's always listening and with Him, we are always at home. He looks at us, and though we know he sees right through us, sees clearly our sin and our faults, is consumed with love for us people, who he calls the pinnacle of his creation.
In the end, we didn't buy a vacuum cleaner; though their fast-talking manager offered it to us for a mere thousand bucks rather than the initial sixteen hundred. (Maybe we also witnessed to the importance of living within your means!)
Big Blue cost $80, and I think it picks up at least 8% of the dirt that Kirby did, after all. Just don't look too close next time you visit!
Normally, I'd have said, "Well, yes, I do mind," but I my head was still spinning from how quickly this conversation was happening that before I knew it, two sales reps--a man and a woman no more than 21 years old--were on their way into my home and setting up a truly majestic vacuum cleaner. The fellow who had done the initial bit with the candles was apparently the boss and these two were now going to demonstrate and try to sell this vacuum cleaner.
My first thought was "Oh, no. How did I get myself into this? How long will it take for them to leave?" But sometimes God is in the interruptions, you know. And I wondered how often these folks, salespeople who constantly must try to penetrate the near-impregnable privacy of suburbia, are treated as people, much less received hospitably. So I asked how they enjoyed their work, offered them a drink.
They demonstrated their vacuum, though it quickly became evident we wouldn't buy it--even though it was really an amazing vacuum cleaner. They put little filters into the cleaner, rather than a bag, and would pull the filters out to demonstrate how much dirt it picked up from our apparently clean carpet. They poured baking powder on our carpet, had me try to vacuum it up with our current vacuum cleaner (a Hoover affectionately known as "Big Blue"), and then vacuumed where I had just vacuumed and pulled up so much more baking soda. They vacuumed our mattress for dustmites. They vacuumed and vacuumed and vacuumed.
But at the beginning of the conversation, I mentioned that I was a pastor. And interspersed with the vacuum-talk was talk about the fact this young woman had been thrown out of her home a few years back. The young man, father of an 8-month-old girl, wondered what it meant to be baptized or to have his baby baptized. The girl wondered about how preachers get paid--was it from "the tip basket" that gets passed around during church or some other way? We talked about how each of us has a job where people sometimes ignore you, shut you out, or at the very least aren't buying what you're selling.
In all, I hope that they left feeling loved. I hope they left knowing someone was onto their schtick but loved them anyway. After all, isn't that what the Father does for us? We're all essentially vacuum cleaner salespeople, trying to sell enough to earn the all-expenses-paid trip to the Bahamas or Vegas or wherever it is this month. We call it different things, more respectable things, perhaps, but we creep around the earth trying to do the same thing, to make what we consider a nice life for ourselves. But the Father knows that there's a different, higher way to live; yet He patiently listens as we cajole and plead for Him to give us what we want, telling him why it's so much better than His other plans for us. Most often, He's not buying either; but He's always listening and with Him, we are always at home. He looks at us, and though we know he sees right through us, sees clearly our sin and our faults, is consumed with love for us people, who he calls the pinnacle of his creation.
In the end, we didn't buy a vacuum cleaner; though their fast-talking manager offered it to us for a mere thousand bucks rather than the initial sixteen hundred. (Maybe we also witnessed to the importance of living within your means!)
Big Blue cost $80, and I think it picks up at least 8% of the dirt that Kirby did, after all. Just don't look too close next time you visit!
posted by Rev. Michael Jordan at 11:08 AM
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