Kissing God

Image via Wikipedia

I cut my ministry teeth about ten years ago at Provision International, situated in what was, at the time, among the most violent and destitute areas in the city of Nashville. It was here that I learned the value and joy of loving and serving the homeless and poor. (And, for the record, it was here that I would one day befriend a bighearted, long-haired musician/missionary by the name of Kenny York.) Each Saturday for several years straight, I participated in an afternoon community meal dubbed Saturday Night Live—SNL for short. A couple hundred folks from the neighborhood attended, along with their children and a number of homeless individuals.

During one of my first SNLs, I helped out by scooping mashed potatoes onto our guests’ plates as they made their way through the food line. SNL took place both indoors and out, depending upon the weather. This time we were indoors though the temperature was climbing by the minute; I don’t remember why—maybe we had been forced inside because of a rainstorm.

I thoroughly enjoyed serving in the food line, greeting people by name, offering them abundant spoonfuls of hot, appetizing food, and bantering for a moment with many of them. At this point, I’d had little experience with the poor, not to mention the homeless, but I was a fast learner. I had discovered many things about these drifters and tent-dwellers, including that fact that some had been thrust into the streets because of mental illness. Still, I wasn’t quite prepared when I spotted one man in particular as he shuffled his way down the line. He was in his fifties or so, and though the air was hot and muggy, he was dressed in multiple layers. The homeless often carry a few extra clothes, but this man seemed to believe he had to wear them all lest he misplace them. I counted several layers consisting of various colors and textures; these were topped off by a tatty, ill-fitting suit. His shoes were dilapidated, his skin was grimy, and he made no eye contact. I could see that he was quietly and anxiously talking to himself as his eyes darted here and there.

Eventually, the man reached my station and held out his plate. I gave him a scoop of potatoes, looked into his eyes, smiled, and said, “Hi! How are you?” No dice. He seemed completely unaware of his surroundings as he nervously moved on down the line.

Immediately, I heard the Holy Spirit’s quiet voice: “You have just seen the face of God.”

Wow. I was instantly taken aback and had nothing to say beyond the unadorned “Wow.” Like most Christians, I knew the verse by heart: “I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me” (Matt. 25:40, NIV). Still, I was in awe. I remember nothing else about that evening, yet that brief moment is seared into my memory.

It was just a week or two later, and once again, SNL was in full swing. This time I had volunteered to help out with the Kid Zone—a sectioned-off area designed to keep the children occupied until mealtime. I had recently met a little girl from Sudan. Atil was about seven years old, and her parents, who were believers, had fled severe persecution. With few resources, they had landed in the hood—yet they were safer than they had been in their own country.

Atil was delicate and beautiful, with huge eyes and a petite frame. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate. That evening, she plopped herself onto the floor in front of me and colored contentedly as the worship band rehearsed onstage and the cooking crew readied the meal in the kitchen. I was taken with Atil’s fine features and sweet voice, and as we chatted about her siblings and classmates, I leaned over and kissed her cheek.

“You have just kissed the face of God,” I heard.

For the second time in a couple of weeks, I was astounded by what the Lord had revealed to me. First I’d seen the face of God. Now I’d kissed it. He was suddenly making Himself known to me in a way I had never before experienced. As a child growing up in Chicago, I had seen Him in the stained glass windows of magnificent cathedrals. I had perceived his majesty and glory and grandeur. It was lesson enough that He had divulged Himself in the exquisite, innocent, delightful face of Atil. But now I had also seen Him in the derelict, offensive, and foul.

The Lord challenged me that day. He wanted to know if I would love and serve Him no matter what sort of package He came in. Would I welcome Him if He came to me in surprising ways? Would I discriminate against the crude in favor of the pure? Was I ready to encounter Him in the eyes of those who were difficult to look at?

Thankfully, the Lord not only challenged me but also ruined me that day. I realized that His presence was no more real and compelling in Atil’s sweet face than He was in the hollow eyes of the homeless man. Since then, I’ve hugged Him, fed Him, cried with Him, and fixed him thousands of to-go boxes. I’ve seen Him in the face of tweakers, alcoholics, and prostitutes as well as mentally and physically sick individuals. He has spoken to me through the mouths of those who have spent decades behind bars. Yet I wouldn’t trade places with anyone in the world. Jesus is beautiful, no matter how He chooses to divulge Himself.

Have you seen Jesus lately?