“Twelve Stamps and a Bottle of Metamucil”

Preachers need to be careful about what we say from the pulpit. Sometimes what we say comes back to haunt us. It’s God’s not-so-subtle way of holding our feet to the gospel fire – making sure we’re actually practicing what we preach and not just “preachin.’”

Years ago, I preached on the word compassion. I did my homework. I looked up the biblical references to the word. I did an etymological study in Hebrew and Greek. I meditated on my findings in the hopes of discerning an appropriate word to speak to the congregation on Sunday.

What I found was not unexpected. Jesus never failed to show compassion whenever he was faced with human need. His disciples, on the other hand, were not always ready and/or willing to follow his example. In my sermon, I called attention to the time when blind Bartimaeus hailed Jesus from afar, begging him for mercy (Mark 10:46–52). The disciples’ reaction? They rebuked him. “Scram!” they said.

Shame on those disciples, I said, for thinking that Jesus was more concerned with expounding the spiritual truths of the universe than something as mundane as a blind beggar’s ask. I highlighted Jesus’ compassion and lowlighted the disciples’ callousness. What was wrong with them? I then made myself and the congregation gospel heroes, trumpeting our virtue by saying, “We know better than those first disciples – We know to show compassion!” I then crescendoed to an appeal for a generous offering to support Week of Compassion, our Disciples of Christ worldwide emergency relief and development fund. I was preachin’, I tell you! All the people said Amen, I stepped out of the pulpit, the sermon was complete, and the offering was taken.

The next day, Monday, I sat in my office enjoying a few hours of blessed solitude, studying in preparation for Wednesday’s mid-week Bible study. I was hard at work expounding some of the spiritual truths of the universe as revealed in the New Testament when there came a-tapping at my door. I rolled my eyes and sighed before saying, “Come in.” A man with a noticeable limp hobbled into my office, extended his hand, and said, “Pastor, can I talk with you for a moment? I need some help.”

I uttered a resigned, “Sure, have a seat,” but I’m certain the tone of my voice and the look in my eyes must have spelled REBUKE. There I was plumbing the depths of Scripture when he interrupted me. And he was just getting started. He retold his life’s story, including how he was involved in an accident in Atlanta and injured his spine causing partial paralysis in his legs, how he had spent weeks of rehabilitation at a V.A. hospital near Winston-Salem, how they fitted him for the leg braces he insisted on showing me by rolling up his pant legs, how he decided to relocate to Wilmington where I was serving at the time in the hopes of maybe finding a job, but how he first had a lot of paperwork to fill out so he could receive his disability benefits, not to mention the paperwork he still had to complete for his stay at the V.A. where he got fitted for the leg braces which he insisted on showing me again.

I finally interrupted him, asking, “How can I help you?” But that led to another recounting of the accident, the stay in the V.A., another look at the leg braces, mention of Vietnam, and an ID card identifying him as the person he claimed to be. I asked again, “How can I help you?,” no doubt in a tone that betrayed I was irked that I was being kept from plumbing the depths of the New Testament for spiritual truths and feeling a strong rebuke coming on.

“Well,” he said – and this is where his head dipped a bit and his eyes looked away – “I need about twelve stamps and a bottle of Metamucil.”

“Pardon?”

“The injury to my back affected my bowels just like it did my legs. I’m all bound up, Preacher. That’s why I need the Metamucil. And I need the stamps so I can mail these forms I’ve filled out. I eat lunch down at the Good Shepherd House and I’ve got some kin here who are letting me stay in their back room temporarily. What I need right now since I’m out of money are the stamps and some Metamucil.”

Something about the way he spoke with such sincerity and honesty about such an indelicate condition served as a laxative that broke up my hard heart. I asked him his name and told him mine. I promised I would help him. The next day, I drove downtown to the Good Shepherd House and left a bag with Adrian’s name on the outside of it at the front desk. Contents: a dozen stamps and a bottle of Metamucil.

That same afternoon, a Tuesday, I reread the sermon I had preached two days earlier about a Savior who never failed to show compassion and his disciples who oft-times did. I reread the part about how they rebuked Bartimaeus when they ought to have shown mercy. I reread how I had scolded those heartless disciples, saying, “Shame on them!”

It was a good sermon.

One I needed to hear.