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A Sermon Delivered at First Christian
Church Stockton One
of my favorite preachers is Tony Campolo, who grew up in inner city
Philadelphia, attending African American churches during his youth, and
who now sounds like a Black preacher in his style.
Tony has written many books, is a presenter at many preaching
conferences and seminars, and he was one of the spiritual advisors to
President Clinton.
He tells a story of being in Hawaii a few years ago.
It was 3:00 in the morning, and Tony Campolo, professor of
sociology at Eastern College, could not sleep. There was a six-hour
time-difference from Campolo’s home state of Pennsylvania and the island
of paradise, where he was attending a conference. Since he was restless,
Campolo left the hotel in search of a place to get something to eat.
Eventually he found a tiny coffee shop. He walked in and sat down. Here is
his description of the events which followed. The
fat guy behind the counter came over and asked me, "What do you
want?" I told him I wanted a cup of coffee and a donut. As I sat
there munching on my donut and sipping my coffee at 3:30 in the morning,
the door suddenly opened, and to my discomfort in marched 8 or 9
provocative and rather boisterous prostitutes. I was a small place and
they sat on either side of me. Their talk was garrulous, loud, and rather
crude. I felt completely out of place. I was just about to make my getaway
when I heard the woman sitting next to me say, "You know, tomorrow if
my birthday. I’m going to be 39." Her friend responded in a rather
nasty tone, "So what do you want from me? A birthday party? What do
you want? Do you want me to get a cake, and sing happy birthday to
you?" "Come on," said the women next to me, "why do
you have to be so mean? I’m just telling you, that’s all. Why do you
have to put me down? I was just telling you that it is my birthday. I
don’t want anything from you. I mean, why should I have a birthday
party? I’ve never had a birthday party in my whole life. Why should I
have one now?" When
Tony Campolo heard that, he said he made a decision. "I sat and
waited until the women left, and then I called over the counter to the fat
guy and asked him, "Do they come in here every night?"
"Yeah," he answered. "The one right next to me," I
asked, "does she come in every night?" "Yeah," he
said, "that’s Agnes. Yeah, she comes in here every night. Why do
you want to know?" "Because she just said that tomorrow is her
birthday. What do you say we do something special for her? What do you
think about throwing a birthday party for her right here in the
diner?" A cute kind of smile crept over the fat man’s chubby
cheeks. He answered with measured delight, "That’s a great idea. I
like it. That’s great. Agnes is one of those people who is really nice
and kind. I don’t think anybody has ever done anything nice and kind for
her." "Well, look," I told him, "if it is OK with you,
I’ll be back here tomorrow morning at 2:30. I’ll decorate the place.
I’ll even get a birthday cake for her.’ "No way," he
retorted, "the birthday cake, that’s my thing. I’ll bake the
birthday cake." Two-thirty
the next morning, Campolo was back at that diner. He writes, "I
picked up some crepe paper and other decorations at the store, and made a
sign of big pieces of cardboard that read, ‘Happy Birthday, Agnes!’ I
decorated that diner from one end to the other. I had that diner looking
great. The word must have gotten out on the street because by 3:15 every
prostitute in Honolulu was in that place. There was wall to wall
prostitutes—and Campolo. At 3:30 on the dot the door of the diner swung
open and in came Agnes and her friend. Everybody was ready. When they came
in we all jumped up and screamed and we sang, "Happy Birthday,
Agnes!" And you know, I’ve never seen a person so flabbergasted, so
stunned, so shaken. Her mouth fell open, her knees started to buckle, her
friend had to offer her arm to steady her. When
the birthday cake with all the candles was carried out, that’s when she
just lost it. She started sobbing. Harry, the guy behind the counter,
gruffly mumbled, "Blow out the candles, Agnes, cut the cake."
Agnes looked down at the cake, and then without taking her eyes off it,
she slowly and softly said, "Look, Harry, is it all right with you if
I… I mean, if I don’t… what I want to ask, is it OK if I keep the
cake a little while? Is it all right if we don’t eat it right
away?" Harry shrugged and answered, "Sure, Agnes, that’s fine.
You want to keep the cake, keep the cake. Take it home if you want."
"Oh, could I?" she asked. Looking at Campolo she said, "I
live just down the street a couple of doors; I want to take the cake home,
is that OK? I’ll be right back, honest." She got off her stool, she
picked up that cake, and she carried it out of that diner like it was the
Holy Grail. When the door closed behind her, there was stunned silence in
the place. Not
knowing what else to do, Campolo broke the silence by saying, "What
do you say that we pray together?" Looking back on it now, Campolo
remarks, "It seems more than a little strange that a sociologist from
Eastern PA would be leading a prayer meeting with a bunch of prostitutes
in a diner in Honolulu at 3:30 in the morning. But I prayed. I prayed for
Agnes. I prayed for her salvation. I prayed that her life would be
changed, and that God would be good to her. And when I finished, Harry
leaned over, and with a trace of hostility in his voice he said,
"Hey, you never told me you were a preacher. What kind of preacher
are you anyway? What church do you belong to?" In one of those
moments when just the right words came, Campolo answered him quietly,
"I belong to a church that throws birthday parties for prostitutes at
3:30 in the morning." Harry thought a moment, and then almost sneered
his answer, "No you don’t; there is no such church like that. In
fact," he concluded, "if there was, I’d join it." Sometimes
we forget that we are a church like that. After all, the church was born
on the day of Pentecost, and there was a party that EVERYONE
was invited to. The party wasn’t for the Disciples, it was for the
visitors.
It didn’t matter that a lot of the people there spoke different
languages. It didn’t matter that people dressed differently from each
other. It didn’t matter that there were people who were kind of on the
seamy side of society. Everyone there was invited to the party God was
throwing. Everyone was given a present—the gift of the Holy Spirit. It
blew within them like helium into a birthday balloon. On
this day of Pentecost we remember that the church was born in wind and
fire, not to sweep us heavenward, but to enable us to lift up those in
doubt, heal the broken, reconcile what is lost, and bring strength to
those who are hurting.
That is why the church exists; not for us, but for the outsider
never invited to a party.
The party is for those who are hungering and thirsting for hope and
meaning, and we are, my friends, the servants of them. The
party is for the teenager with the tattoos and piercings and funky hair
with baggy jeans.
The church is for the teenage girl who doesn’t dress up to our
standards, maybe wearing shorts too short and tops too low.
We are the host and the servant.
The church is for the family with two moms or two dads, or the
family with one mom or one dad.
The church is for the single, never married and living outside of
wedlock.
The church is for those who cannot speak our language, do not know
our rituals, and we adjust for them because it isn’t about us, it is
about them. Our
Saturday night worship service is designed to be a party for those who
have never been to church, or who have had the doors of the church closed
to them.
We will begin in June, and we are calling it Fusion Worship.
Party music, party favors, Spirit led, for people who are searching
for meaning and hope. Harry the good-hearted cook at the diner in Honolulu
might be there, and Agnes, the lost and lonely prostitute, might be
another guest at God’s big birthday party.
Come to the party, it is open to all!
1
Campolo, Tony. The Kingdom of God is a Party. From Sermonillustrations.com
Michael Malone
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