Jim Cymbala’s
Easter Story
F.
Jim Cymbala preaches at a church in the slums of New York. He tells the
following story: It was Easter Sunday and I was so tired at the end of the day
that I just went to the edge of the platform, pulled down my tie and sat down
and draped my feet over the edge. It was a wonderful service with many people
coming forward. The counselors were talking with these people.
As
I was sitting there, I looked up the middle aisle, and there in about the third
row was a man who looked about fifty, disheveled, filthy. He looked up at me
rather sheepishly, as if saying, “Could I talk to you?” We have homeless people
coming in all the time, asking for money or whatever. So as I sat there, I said
to myself, though I am ashamed of it, “What a way to end a Sunday. I’ve had
such a good time, preaching and ministering, and here’s a fellow probably
wanting some money for more wine.”
He
walked up. When he got within about five feet of me, I smelled a horrible smell
like I’d never smelled in my life. It was so awful that when he got close, I
would inhale by looking away, and then I’d talk to him, and then look away to
inhale, because I couldn’t inhale facing him.
I
asked him, “What’s your name?” “David.” “How long have you been on the street?”
“Six years.” “How old are you?” “Thirty-two.” He looked fifty—hair matted,
front teeth missing, wino, eyes slightly glazed. “Where did you sleep last
night, David?” “Abandoned truck.”
I
keep in my back pocket a money clip that also holds some credit cards. I
fumbled to pick one out thinking, I’ll give him some money. I won’t even get a
volunteer. They are all busy talking with others. Usually we don’t give money
to people; we take them to get something to eat. I took the money out. David
pushed his finger in front of me. He said, “I don’t want your money. I want
this Jesus, the One you were talking about, because I’m not going to make it.
I’m going to die on the street.”
I
completely forgot about David, and I started to weep for myself. I was going to
give a couple of dollars to someone God had sent to me. See how easy it is? I
could make the excuse I was tired. There is no excuse. I was not seeing him the
way God sees him. I was not feeling what God feels.
But
oh, did that change! David just stood there. He didn’t know what was happening.
I pleaded with God, “God, forgive me! Forgive me! Please forgive me. I am so
sorry to represent You this way. I’m so sorry. Here I am with my message and my
points, and You send somebody and I am not ready for it. Oh, God!”
Something
came over me. Suddenly I started to weep deeper, and David began to weep. He
fell against my chest as I was sitting there. He fell against my white shirt
and tie, and I put my arms around him, and there we wept on each other. The
smell of His person became a beautiful aroma. Here is what I thought the Lord
made real to me: If you don’t love this smell, I can’t use you, because this is
why I called you where you are. This is what you are about. You are about this
smell.
Christ
changed David’s life. He started memorizing portions of Scripture that were
incredible. We got him a place to live. We hired him in the church to do
maintenance, and we got his teeth fixed. He was a handsome man when he came out
of the hospital. They detoxed him in 6 days.
He
spent that Thanksgiving at my house. He also spent Christmas at my house. When
we were exchanging presents, he pulled out a little thing, and he said, “This
is for you.” It was a little white hanky. It was the only thing he could
afford.
A
year later, David got up and talked about his conversion to Christ. The minute
he took the mic and began to speak, I said, “The man is a preacher.” This past
Easter, we ordained David. He is an associate minister of a church over in New
Jersey.
And I was so close to saying, “Here, take this; I’m a busy preacher.”
We can get so full of ourselves
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