January 1, 2007
By Courtney Ballestero

 

The Lord was moving. His presence was moving around the room blessing not only the regular parishioners (do we say that word in Pentecost?), but visitors I had never seen before were coming down to the altar with tears streaming down their faces practically dragging their burdens down the aisle like an overstuffed laundry bag. It was still in the midst of the worship service as the choir was singing a stirring song which I shall not name--really folks, it wasn’t about the song; it was about Jesus wanting to infuse the atmosphere with change. He had entered the room not to just attend, but to attend to the needs of the needy. It was incredible.

 

It was in the midst of this that a disheveled-looking man with stubble on his chin, a dirty baseball cap with a flattened bill, a wife-beater T-shirt, and a suspicious-looking thermos stood at the altar. He flashed us the peace sign and then decided we looked like we were having such a good time that he would go ahead and join us…on the platform.  I looked at him, as our astute ushers gently moved him back to safety, and thought, “Love thy neighbor.” No, really, this guy was my neighbor. My next-door neighbor.

 

We’ve been blessed for the past two years to own our home in a nice, older neighborhood nestled against the community golf course and the historical society. It is, of course, only a railroad track away from some elements of seediness, but to us it is a charming house in a relatively quiet neighborhood.

 

Move Them Out God!

Unfortunately, I happen to live next door to an older man who has fallen prey to alcohol. Once a successful vice-president of a bank, he has spent many years in and out of rehab before settling in the home he inherited from his father, a successful doctor and property owner in the community. His home houses many day laborers, older men who have given up the fight to a glass bottle of poison.  They come in and out day and night with paper bag-wrapped bottles, sometimes getting into sloppy fights on the lawn that bring about six cop cars. Obviously everyone on the block had called the police. I’ve gone so far as to stand on the lawn with my hands outstretched toward their house praying, binding, loosing, begging that they would leave and I could have my cozy neighborhood intact. I realize they were here first, but bless God I’ve got spiritual authority!  I’ve also got a top-of-the-line alarm system on my home to keep the neighbors I’m supposed to love out.

 

As I watched him settle back into his chair, I realized that there was a reason God hasn’t moved my annoying neighbors in the past two years. I feel a twinge as I look at him. I haven’t encouraged him to visit my church. I haven’t offered a Bible study. I’ve barely uttered a half-hearted greeting when he staggers past my house and in gin-soaked syllables says, “Have a blessed day.”

 

Somehow they know we are Christians. It certainly isn’t because of my witness. I set the alarm on my witness every night.  I haven’t wanted to risk myself or my children by the chance I became familiar with them. After speaking with the bus ministry worker who brought him, I found that for several weeks they had met him on the street and had tried to coax him to come to church. He happened to come this day, even though he was a wee bit inebriated. I thanked God under my breath that someone had talked to him. And then I felt that familiar twinge again.

 

Maybe it’s these words of Christ: “And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength: this is the first commandment. And the second is like, namely this, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. There is none other commandment greater than these” (Mark 12:30-21).

 

Keep Them Here God!

A couple days later, he and a friend were walking past my house. He nodded in my direction and before I could realize what I was doing I said, “I saw you in my church the other day. Did you see me?”  His voice was shaky and soft, “Yeah, I saw you. It’s a really cool church.” Even with sunglasses on I could tell there was sorrow in his eyes. He was cloaked in regret and slumped his shoulders as he said, “As you can tell, I don’t really go to church that much.”

 

“Well,” I said with a lump in my throat, “if you’re going to go to a church, you picked the best one.  I hope I see you on Sunday.”  Love thy neighbor. Even the ones you wish weren’t.

 

ninetyandnine.com

 

© 2007, Courtney Ballestero

 

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Courtney Ballestero is a veteran youth pastor (10 years y'all), praise and worship leader (who consistently loses small hair paraphernalia), singer and songwriter who lives to finds new words to stump her dictionary-reading husband.