Where I've Been and What I've Seen

I just returned from the International Christian Retailing Show (ICRS) in Atlanta, GA. It's an annual event where the entire spectrum of christian wares are peddled. Everything from the latest book by that grinning preacher from Houston to socks and ties with Hebrew writing on them to something called "the oil of gladness" in Alice-in-Wonderland bottles. I kept thinking that Jesus would storm in at any moment, knock all the oil of gladness onto the floor, and cry out, "A house of prayer is what my Father had in mind!" But Jesus never showed. Maybe he was waiting for me to do it.

I don't ever want to poopoo on something that Jesus might use to awaken someone to the beautiful light of grace. But venues like that make me nervous; something about that just isn't right.

I did have two wonderful experiences which actually took place before the ICRS began. Sunday afternoon was spent listening to and riding back to the airport with Brennan Manning. The ragamuffin did a stellar job of taking oil-of-gladness theology and pouring it down the drain. If you've never heard Brennan speak, you've missed out. He hands out grace, pure and simple. And you can either drink it down straight or cross your arms and huff. The room I was in drank it down straight. After the event, I escorted him back to the airport in a limo - with the Lord as my witness, a limo. A coupla' boys that Jesus loves to pieces, riding in a big shiny grace tank complete with leather seats and surround sound, just soaking in the mercy.

Later that evening, I shared a meal with Robert Benson. I had seen where Robert was going to do some signing at the ICRS and so I wrote and invited him to dinner. He wrote back and said, "Love to." And so we did. I immediately felt affection for this man due to his wiry beard and pony-tailed hair. It just got better from there. We talked of books and food and kids and Buechner and lovely wives and idiots who think they can write books on raising children. We dined at the South City Kitchen in Atlanta. If you ever have the opportunity to eat there, please do. It was splendid. I'm pretty sure Robert and I were suckled by the same she-wolf and separated soon after birth. It's good to be reunited to family.

The other experience I'll share happened on the last day of the ICRS. I don't know that it was wonderful, but it definitely made me stop and think. We were meeting in the Georgia Convention Center. As I walked into the building on Wednesday, I immediately noticed people who did not look like ICRS-ers. ICRS-ers, well, let me describe the men at least. The males either had on suits and ties (with Hebrew writing on them) or they had on those starched camp shirts, untucked and accompanied by pleated khakis with nifty leather shoes. Conformity with a capital C. The people I saw on Wednesday did not conform to those dress codes. These men, women and children had on all the trappings of the Middle East. Oh, there were a few suits to be seen, but most everyone had on beautiful robes and headwear. Their skin was that dark-olive skin like Jesus must've had. Their hair and eyes and eyebrows above were crayola-black. And they were everywhere.

I stopped at the info desk and said, "Just out of curiosity, what event are all these people here for?" The nice info-lady said, "They're here for a celebration of the Muslim faith. You're about the 5000th person to ask me." As I continued to walk cross-stream to those about to celebrate the Muslim faith, I looked to see if anybody with an untucked camp shirt whose hair was sprinkled with the oil of gladness was stopping to talk to these beautiful Muslim people. I didn't see any encounters of such a close kind. The ICRS-ers just kept walking one direction and the Muslim people just kept walking the other, exchanging nothing more than glances. I wasn't hoping to find anybody sharing the four spiritual laws; in fact, I was praying nobody was doing that. But I hoped to find at least one who was saying, "hello" or "hey, be sure and eat at the South City Kitchen while you're here." Since Jesus hadn't emerged on the show floor to kick over the tables, maybe he had walked upstairs and was sitting in the common area. And maybe he was watching all of us Christians walk right past the Muslims and was wondering why that was so awkward for us. And maybe he was crying because we wouldn't stop and speak or at least grin and wave. All that Jesus-stuff down the escalators created to bring glory to his name and share the good news with the nations and when the nations (at least one) showed up, we had nothing but silence. And ties with Hebrew writing on them. And smiley preachers from Texas. And bottles of gladness with spill proof caps. Then again, maybe I never saw Jesus on the floor of the ICRS because he hadn't arrived yet. He came in on Wednesday for the Muslim celebration of faith. Then again, maybe my scripture socks are too tight. I'm sure a little oil of gladness will loosen them right up, eh?