I’d like to share with you, “An Open Letter to My Former Boss” by someone I think you’ll know. Your invitation to church this Sunday might just change someone’s life.
Dear Friend,
I’m writing to say thanks. I wish I could thank you personally, but I don’t know where you are. Your face is fuzzy in my memory. But I’ll never forget what you did.
There you were, leaning against your pickup in the West Texas oil field. You were the boss. We were the workers. You read blueprints. We dug the ditches. You inspected the pipe. We laid it. You ate with the bosses in the shed. We ate with each other in the shade.
We weren’t much to look at. Faces burnt from the sun; skin black from the grease. For me, it was a summer job – a high school boy earning good money. For the others, it was a way of life.
We weren’t much to listen to, either. Our language was sandpaper coarse. After lunch, we’d light the cigarettes and begin the jokes. For 30 minutes in the heat of the day, the oil patch became Las Vegas – replete with foul language, dirty stories, blackjack, and barstools that doubled as lunch pails.
In the middle of such a game, you approached us. I thought you had a job for us. Like the others, I groaned when I saw you coming.
“Uh, fellas,” you started. We turned up and looked up at you.
“I, uh, I just wanted to invite…”
I had no idea what you might be about to say, but I knew it had nothing to do with work.
“I just wanted to tell you that, uh, our church is having a service tonight and, uh…”
What? I couldn’t believe it. He’s talking about church? Out here? With us?
“I wanted to invite any of you to come along.”
Silence. Screaming silence.
“Well, that’s it. If any of you want to go…uh, let me know.”
After you turned and left, we turned and laughed. You became the butt of the day’s jokes.
I’m sure you went back to your truck knowing the only good you’d done was to make a good fool out of yourself. If that’s what you thought, then you were wrong.
Some five years later, a college sophomore was struggling with a decision. He had drifted from his faith. He wanted to come back. But the price was high. His friends might laugh. His habits would have to change. His reputation would be put on the line.
Could he do it? Did he have the courage?
That’s when I thought of you. I thought of how your love for God had been greater than your love for your reputation.
I thought of how your obedience had been greater than you common sense.
I remembered how you had care more about making disciples than about making a good fresh impression. Your memory became my motivation.
So I went home.
What you did that day wasn’t much. And I’m sure you walked away thinking your efforts had been wasted.
They weren’t. That’s the reason for this letter to you.
I thought of you this week when I read about someone else who took a risk at lunch. I thought of you when I read the story of the little boy who gave his lunch to Jesus.
His lunch wasn’t much. In fact, it wasn’t anything compared to what was needed for more than five thousand people.
There’s one difference, though. The boy got to see what Jesus did with his gift, and you didn’t that’s why I’m writing. I want you to know at least one of the seeds fell into a fertile crevice.
Thanks for the example. Thanks for the courage. Thanks for giving your lunch to God. He did something with it; it became the Bread of Life for me.
Gratefully,
Max
You never know what God will do with your simple obedience. Invite someone you know to First Church this Sunday. Our Heavenly Father will be blessed and so will you!
PS – We got off to a great start last night with “Becoming a Contagious Christian!’ We ran out of participant’s guides; so Kim is trying to find some more! There’s still time to get engaged. Join us Wednesday night at 6:15; dinner at 5:30. Blessings!