Note: “Now, I need to give you a warning before you leave."“A warning?” Andrew eyed Pablo cautiously."Here it is: The more joyful you get, the more you'll want to die," said Pablo.Andrew stared blankly. That didn't make any sense -- A quote from the story belowHave you been missing something that Jesus promised to give you? Something called, “Joy?” If so, it is not because Jesus has not been keeping His promise. There are other factors involved and it most likely has to do with you. Here is a wonderful story about how to reclaim the joy of the Lord and get it back into your life. If you are at work, I wouldn’t read this now. But I would print it and take it home, or read it during your lunch break – but read it you must! This story will make you smile, make you want to repent, make you more thankful and appreciative, and it will make you want to fall in love with Jesus all over again. Enjoy!Imprisoned Joy, Part 1
by George Halitzka
Author's Note: I should admit right now that I'm lousy at joy. There are other spiritual habits that come far easier to me. I repent with the best of them, and I never have a shortage of prayer requests. Sometimes, I'm even moved to tears when I think about Jesus' Passion. But joy is a scarce commodity in my life.
So as you read this narrative, keep in mind that I'm a lot more like Andrew, the guy who's bored with life, than Pablo, who's got the joy market cornered. I'm better at writing about joy than I am at living it.
Nonetheless, I think Pablo has some good advice on the subject, because many of his thoughts come straight from Philippians. That letter is the Apostle Paul's graduate-level course in "the joy of the Lord."
So if you're like me and feel sometimes that good things have passed you by, class is now in session. Join Pablo and his student Andrew for "Imprisoned Joy."
- GH
* * *
Andrew Baxter sat in his car in the parking lot, wondering if he should bother getting out.
I'm just a little burned out, he repeated to himself. I'll be fine. Don't even know why I'm here. Not for the first time, he considered putting his key back in the ignition and driving away.
But on the other hand, he'd just driven 118 miles without stopping. Tyler had really thought he should see this guy waiting inside ... and on a more practical note, his bladder was about to burst.
That decided it. Andrew opened his car door to the biting wintry air and jogged towards a squat cinder-block building, praying they had a visitor's restroom.
The whole ridiculous journey had really begun several Thursdays ago, when Andrew (somewhat reluctantly) had revealed a prayer request to his small group. "I've been feeling kind of 'down' lately," he said hesitantly. "I'm not depressed or anything; I guess I'm just ... bored. I mean, my boss is still a jerk, but I have a job. Me and Autumn broke up almost four months ago. I'm over her, mostly. Sometimes I worry about the recession and stuff ... but there's nothing wrong. I just feel ... blah."
Actually, Andrew could think of several adjectives besides "blah." He was dutifully going through the motions of life, and couldn't remember the last time he'd felt honestly happy. He needed a vacation, or a girlfriend, or a new job, or ... something.
Actually, that was the problem. What did he need? Somehow, he suspected none of those remedies would help.
Andrew intended his prayer request to be just one more item on a list; something one of the guys would mumble to God at the end of small group. Praying about this weird dullness might not help, but it couldn't hurt.
Unfortunately, Tyler, one of the guys, had seized on his request like a dog on steak. He battered Andrew with questions: Was he serving anywhere? Was he thankful for what he had? How were his friendships?
Andrew hadn't known how to respond — mostly he tried to dissuade Tyler from this sudden interest in his spiritual life. They hardly even knew each other: This small group was just six random guys from the singles ministry, and they'd only been meeting a few months. But somehow, when everyone was grabbing their coats and headed for the door, Tyler cornered him.
"Hey man, I'm sorry about all those questions," Tyler said.
"No biggie," said Andrew. He put his hand on the doorknob. "Seeya next week?"
"Listen, I know somebody who might help you out," said Tyler. "I went to see him one time, when I was — bored. Like you."
"I appreciate you thinkin' of me and everything." Andrew tried to smile. "But I don't need counseling —"
"He's no counselor," laughed Tyler. "He's down at Fairview Correctional."
Andrew eyed him warily. "So he's, like, a prison guard?"
"Nope. Dope dealer from Cleveland doing life without parole," said Tyler casually.
"My pastor set me up to see him."
Andrew forgot about leaving for a minute and just stared at Tyler. Was this guy serious? Was he actually trying to send Andrew to visit a felon in Fairview — as a cure for boredom?
Yes, that's exactly what Tyler was trying to do. Yet the more Andrew heard about Pablo Gozo, this convicted crack salesman, the more he was intrigued. Pablo had been behind bars 15 years, ever since he shot two buyers and an undercover cop during a drug deal. Pablo met Jesus in jail, and now — at least the way Tyler told it — he maintained such a cheerful outlook that even the guards sought his advice.
"He knows he's never getting out," said Tyler. "He's stuck in a seven-by-twelve box for life. And he's one of the most joyful guys you'll ever meet." Tyler told stories of Pablo's positive attitude until Andrew — quite against his will — found himself intrigued.
His better judgment told him this was a fool's errand, but he still called the prison. Seeing somebody worse off than me should cheer me up, he thought wryly. And didn't Jesus say to visit prisoners?
So a month later, as Andrew jogged towards the prison "welcome center" in hopes of a bathroom and his scheduled meeting with a felon, he couldn't help shaking his head at the whole unlikely chain of events. This was either going to be a remarkable day in his life ... or an utter waste of time.
* * *
Andrew felt something like a prisoner himself — or a character on Law and Order — as he passed through a metal detector and into the bare institutional building. A grim-looking guard examined his ID while Andrew nervously glanced around, eyes resting on a sign warning him against bringing weapons into prison.
After a short wait, a guard ushered Andrew into a large bare room full of small tables, already occupied with other guests and inmates. Another grim-looking guard directed him to the table where Pablo Gozo sat waiting.
Pablo fit the movie image of a jailbird, with a blue prison uniform covering bulging arms and copious tattoos. His salt-and-pepper goatee and heavy brows over downcast eyes gave a vaguely ominous impression. Andrew wished this joyful character would crack a smile. But as he approached the table and sat down nervously, he noticed something even more remarkable than a smile: Hard-boiled Pablo seemed to be silently crying.
"Uh ... are you OK?" asked Andrew, not knowing what else to say.
"I'm sorry, brother," said Pablo. He unabashedly reached up a hand to brush away the tears. "Today's my anniversary, you know."
"You're married?"
"No — thank God! No, 15 years ago was my crime."
"But you're — I mean...." Andrew wasn't sure if he should call it crying. "Y'know, your eyes are watering."
"Tears of joy, brother," said Pablo. "Why should God choose me? Why should I find grace?"
Why should God choose him? To be honest, that thought had been bugging Andrew on his long drive. It was all well and good for Pablo to be joyful, he thought. But what about the three people he shot? What about the addicts who bought drugs from him to mess up their lives; were they joyful? Andrew didn't want to be judgmental, but the fact is this guy was doing life without parole for a reason. Maybe Pablo should have a little less joy and a little more ... sorrow, or something. Maybe these tears were a good thing.
"Me, a kid from the barrio who joined the Latin Kings; sold drugs and shot three people," said Pablo, as though making Andrew's point for him. "Why should God give me grace?"
"Yeah, what about the people you shot?" said Andrew abruptly.
Suddenly, Andrew realized he'd blurted that question aloud. Instinctively, he looked over to make sure a guard was still standing nearby. But Pablo wasn't angry — instead, he lowered his head and nodded quietly.
"I asked their forgiveness," said Pablo. "I wrote to the two men I shot; the ones trying to buy drugs. The doctors patched them up and they're OK." Pablo shook his head sadly. "Neither one wrote back. They're still addicts."
Well, at least he tried, thought Andrew. But he pressed again: "What about the undercover cop? What happened to him?"
"He's in a wheelchair; can't walk," Pablo confessed miserably. "My bullet hit the man's spine."
Andrew felt a sudden surge of anger. Pablo Gozo was whole while the man he shot was a paraplegic, yet he claimed to be "joyful." It didn't seem right.
Pablo continued quietly. "My lawyer, he got in touch with Officer Gonzalez. I send him all the money I make from my job here. It isn't much." Pablo shook his head ashamedly.
Andrew felt a little ashamed himself. Should he really be dredging up Pablo's dirty laundry? But after all, it isn't this guy's fault the three men aren't dead, Andrew thought. Maybe a little guilt is good for his joyful soul.
Then Andrew noticed a huge guard, a big black man who seemed about as wide as he was tall without an ounce of fat on his frame, step away from his place along the wall. He walked over to the table where Pablo and Andrew were sitting. "Hey man, why don't you stop disrespectin' Pablo till you know what you're talkin' about?" he said.
"Sorry ... officer," said Andrew awkwardly. Even the guards are on his side, he thought.
"Deonte, he's fine," said Pablo to the guard.
"You don't know what you're talkin' about," the guard insisted to Andrew. "Officer Gonzalez, the cop Pablo shot, he came down here to visit this man. And you know what Pablo did? He got on his knees — his knees — and begged the man to forgive him. I never saw anything like it in 23 years here."
"Deonte, that's enough —" broke in Pablo. But the guard continued:
"Turned out that Officer Gonzalez knew Jesus too. 'Please stop sending money from your job. I have disability; you need it more in here,' he said. Told Pablo he forgave him. But while Pablo was down on the floor by the man's wheelchair —"
"Deonte, don't —" said Pablo.
"This young man needs to know!" said the guard forcefully, pointing a beefy finger at Andrew. "Pablo Gozo got down at the foot of this man's wheelchair. Then he took a bowl and towel and washed his feet. Gonzalez got all embarrassed; asked why he was doin' it. Pablo said, 'He who has been forgiven much, loves much.'
"Do you know Luke 7, young man?" asked the guard. "That's where a hooker was so thankful for grace that she got down and washed her Savior's feet. That's what Pablo Gozo did for this man. You know who sat back and judged the prostitute? A Pharisee, young man. You think about that."1
"I ... didn't know," stammered Andrew.
Deonte the Guard stepped back to his place along the wall, shaking his head. Pablo was visibly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Andrew. He means well...."
Andrew's eyes studied the floor. "I really didn't know...."
"You're right, Brother," said Pablo earnestly. "How could I repay my debt to that man? Or Jesus? That's why I cry. He who has been forgiven much loves much." Pablo wiped away more tears from his eyes.
But Andrew hardly noticed; he was caught in his own thoughts. He knew the rest of the verse Pablo was quoting: "He who has been forgiven little, loves little."
He felt suddenly ashamed for questioning Pablo Gozo. After all, when was the last time he, Andrew, had been moved to tears over God's grace? Or washed anybody's feet?
Never — that's when.
* * *
Andrew expected the conversation to take a turn for the awkward. But instead, Pablo immediately changed the subject. He started to ask questions about Andrew's life.
Andrew found himself retelling stories of collegiate pranks (Pablo was curious about dorm life; he'd never been on a university campus) and even grade school hijinks (both men got their first detentions for making armpit noises in class).
Andrew began to feel inexplicably encouraged just from talking to Pablo. Anyone can be a good talker, he reflected, but Pablo's a good listener.
In the midst of telling a story about his sister, Andrew suddenly stopped. He realized Pablo was laughing just as hard as he'd been crying only minutes before.
"Is something wrong, brother?" asked Pablo. "Go ahead; tell me about your sister."
Andrew struggled to put his thought into words. "Well ... a minute ago, you were crying. About — what you did, and God's forgiveness and everything. But now —"
"Now I'm laughing," prompted Pablo.
"Yeah. I mean, how —"
"Do you think Jesus is up there dwelling on my past?" asked Pablo.
"Well, no —"
"Then why should I?" Pablo smiled broadly. "Grace is about remembering so you can forget."
Remembering so you can forget. "So remembering is — like, remembering what you got saved from —"
" — And forgetting is moving on, because Jesus already has."
It struck Andrew that he — and most of the people he knew — were very bad at balancing those ideas.
"But speaking of forgetting," continued Pablo, "it seems like we've been talking a lot about the past. What about now, brother? How are you doing today?"
This is what Andrew had come to discuss, yet he was strangely reluctant to broach the subject. For a few minutes, he'd forgotten about the dullness and actually enjoyed himself. Still, he took a breath and plunged into his account of the past months, from his crummy job to his breakup and everything in between. Finally, when Andrew ran out of steam, Pablo leaned back in his chair and nodded quietly.
"I feel bad dumping this on you," said Andrew. "I mean, you have enough to worry about, being — locked up and everything...."
"But I have the joy of the Lord, brother!" exclaimed Pablo. "These walls don't hold me in."
"Sure," said Andrew. "But don't you get — depressed and stuff?"
"I have bad days," said Pablo. "Of course I do. But that's not where I live."
Andrew nodded uncertainly. He admired Pablo's attitude, but hadn't the faintest idea how he did it.
"Wouldn't you say if a man can be joyful in prison, he could be joyful anywhere?" Pablo asked.
"Yeah," agreed Andrew. "I mean, that's why I came —"
"Well, I'm not the man to learn from," said Pablo.
"What? I thought —"
"I'm just a student. When I first got here, I slept as much as I could. Hardly left my cell; sometimes didn't even eat. Thought life was over. And this was after I met Jesus, brother."
Andrew was confused. Had he driven two hours to learn that Pablo couldn't teach him anything about joy?
"Then I discovered an amazing little book," explained Pablo, with mounting intensity. "Taught me everything. It was written by a man with a past as dark as mine, doing hard time in a filthy cell with chains on his wrists. My namesake."
"You mean Paul?" said Andrew.
"You ever tried Philippians?" Pablo asked.
Andrew nodded. "Yeah. I mean, my small group studied it a couple months ago —"
"That's not what I asked," said Pablo. "Anybody can study it. Have you tried it?"
"What?"
"It's Paul's prescription," said Pablo. "Better than Prozac, brother. Oh, Prozac helps people who are really depressed; thank God for it. But people like you and me, brother? People who are 'bored'? We need to take a big dose of Philippians. Less side effects."
"I told you, I've read it —"
"So? Tell me how it changed your life." Pablo waited expectantly.
Andrew stuttered and stammered for a moment, but found he couldn't think of a single thing that was different since he read Paul's epistle. In fact, he could hardly remember anything from the study at all.
"Let me tell you how it changed me," said Pablo. "Paul gave us so many reasons for joy in that little book ... it sounds like you missed them. Are you ready for Joy 101?"
"Should I, like, take notes?" asked Andrew.
"No!" said Pablo vehemently. "You already 'studied'; see how much good it did you.
Don't take notes, brother. Try it. Live it."
"OK, I'll ... try," said Andrew, a bit offended.
"That's all God expects," said Pablo.
* * *
The inmate sat up and leaned over the table, staring intently at Andrew. "We already talked about one of Paul's keys to joy. Do you remember what it was?"
Andrew shook his head, confused. Clearly, he'd missed something.
"Trusting in Christ alone, brother!" said Pablo. "Confidence that He's all you need."
"He's the only one who can save me. I know —"
"That's the problem — you know," reprimanded Pablo. "I didn't ask you to tell me what you know; I care about what you live. See, we have an easier time with this one here on the inside."
"You mean ... it's easier to trust God in prison?"
"Much easier. Let me ask you a question: Why are you going to heaven?"
"Because of Jesus. He's my, y'know, 'Savior and Lord.'"
"Good answer. Now, here's another one: Why are you a good Christian?"
"I don't know ... I go to church and small group? I don't, like, drink and stuff ... I don't know; what kind of question is that?"
"A lousy one," affirmed Pablo. "Because the question should be, 'Why am I such a horrible Christian?' That's why it's easier on the inside. We know we're horrible Christians."
It started to click in Andrew's brain. "Because if you're here, you already know you're a sinner."
"Right! The Apostle Paul knew, brother. He threw Christians in jail. He was an accessory to murder. He was a horrible Christian. But it's harder for you on the outside — compared to those heathens at work, you're a great person! Somewhere deep inside, you think Jesus loves you because you're a pretty righteous guy."
"No, I don't —" protested Andrew.
"Then why did you come in here doing your best impression of a Pharisee?" asked Pablo.
Andrew looked down at the table and managed to shrug weakly.
"In here we know, brother," said Pablo gently. "We know we have nothing to bring to God. What would I say? 'Lord, wasn't I a good dope pusher? You like the way I capped that cop?' I know my only hope is Jesus. If He didn't die for me, I'm through."2
"I guess ... I mean, I'm sorry. About my little Pharisee act."
Pablo grinned. "You think I would throw stones for a little sin like that? I got you beat. Listen, so long as you're trying to earn a closer seat to Jesus, you're fearing God. 'What if it's not enough? Why should I try anyway when I'm such a screwup?' But when you realize you're a hopeless cause and grace is all you got, you can experience love. And perfect love drives out fear, and you stop trying to please God and just start loving Him, and then all you can do is wash feet. You know what I mean?"
Andrew nodded slowly. He hadn't "tried" it yet, but he was starting to grasp the concept.
"That's the first key for joy, brother," said Pablo. "Acknowledging you're a complete sinner ... so you can accept that you're completely loved."
Continue to part 2.
* * *
NOTES
1. See Luke 7:36-50.
2. See Philippians 3:4-11 for the basis of Pablo's thoughts on confidence in Christ.
Imprisoned Joy, Part 2 by George Halitzka
Andrew thought he was starting to understand joy a little better. Obviously, it would be hard to be sorrowful if you trusted completely in the love of God. "So you're saying when I trust God's love, I'll be happy, right?" he asked.
"Whoa!" exclaimed Pablo. "Who said anything about happy?"
Andrew was confused. "But you said if I trust God —"
" — Then you'll be miserable!" said Pablo. "You think the Evil One's thrilled when you lean on Jesus? You think you're better than your Savior, and never have to suffer?"
"But that sounds terrible!" protested Andrew.
"Sure it does!" said Pablo cheerfully. "Who smiles when life kicks them in the teeth?"
Something wasn't adding up for Andrew. "I thought we were talking about joy —"
"We are!"
Andrew was more confused than ever. "It doesn't sound like it."
"Brother, always remember this," said Pablo with intensity. "Happiness and joy are two different things. Happiness is when the sun shines and nobody's done you wrong. It just means that life's going your way today, and tomorrow you could be dead!"
"That's a cheerful way to look at things," muttered Andrew.
"So I'd rather have joy," continued Pablo. "Joy is when everything is a mess and I cry from a broken heart. But through my tears I say, 'God is good and Jesus saved me and heaven is waiting.' It's a lot harder than happy, brother. But it's also a lot more worth having."
"That kind of makes sense," said Andrew cautiously. "But how does it work? I mean, in real life?"
"Think about my namesake," said Pablo. "Remember the time he got whipped and tossed in prison for casting a demon out of a slave girl? Now, he's just been beaten almost to death. He's chained hand and foot in a cell that makes a leaky basement look like heaven. But he starts singing!1 Now, we dumb Americans don't get that. We shake our heads and say, 'I could never sing in those circumstances.' But that's the problem: We're thinking circumstances; we're thinking happy.
Andrew nodded cautiously: He sort of understood.
"Paul wasn't happy, he was miserable! But he was honored to be suffering like Christ and thanked God this would turn out for good — somehow. He knew he was loved, even as the World's Chief Sinner. So why wouldn't he sing? It wasn't circumstances ... it was a choice, based on radical trust."
Andrew shook his head. "Pablo ... I have to be honest, OK? I don't think I could choose to sing. I just ... I don't have that much faith."
"Most of us don't, brother," said Pablo. "That's why you start small."
"What do you mean?"
"Next time you're stressed, stop whatever you're doing and put your worries in God's hands," suggested Pablo. "The circumstances won't get better, but you will.2 When something bad happens to you, thank God for the good he's bringing out of it. The Book says to give thanks in all circumstances, right?3 Next time you want a new television, practice being content.4 Stop focusing on what you can't have and enjoy what you got! A beat-up 13-inch TV without cable works fine. Trust me — I know."
"That sounds kind of ... hard," said Andrew dubiously.
"But it's a lot easier than singing in chains, brother," smiled Pablo. "Remember — you said you'd try. Start by trusting God for the little things."
* * *
Andrew shook his head. He'd been feeling encouraged a minute ago, but the good feelings were ebbing away. He knew he could give up his worries to God and practice contentment — for about a week. Then he'd be back to his old tricks. He could never make stuff like that stick.
"You don't look too confident, brother," observed Pablo. "What's holding you back?"
"I don't think it'll last, Pablo," admitted Andrew. "Any time I try to change ... it's like a New Year's Resolution. Gone by February."
"So you don't have a community?" asked Pablo.
"Sure I do," said Andrew. "My church and small group —"
" — In other words, you don't have one," interjected Pablo.
"I just told you —"
"What do you call community, brother? The people you see while you sing songs from a video screen and listen to preaching for an hour a week? Your small group — the place where you compete to give the most 'spiritual' answers even when you don't mean them with a bunch of guys you don't really know?"
Andrew opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it again. He had to admit that was a pretty accurate picture of the situation.
"I'm talking about community, brother!" exclaimed Pablo. "People who don't just mutter prayer requests for you, but know where you live. People who won't play Pharisee when you admit you're struggling. People who can help you grow in grace; hold you accountable —"
"We do that," said Andrew defensively. "Every week, we ask each other how it's going with lust and stuff —"
"That's not accountability!" scoffed Pablo. "That's the Spanish Inquisition!"
"What are you talking about?"
"Anybody can admit to looking at Miss February," said Pablo. "And we should admit it — 'confess your sins to one another'5; that's in the Book. But that's a sorry substitute for accountability. If you had real community, you could share victories!"
Andrew shook his head in confusion. He had no idea what Pablo was talking about.
"You're working to find joy, right? And you're starting with baby steps, right? So don't just tell your group when you screw up! Tell them that on Tuesday, you were dreading a meeting with your boss, and you gave it over to God, and it went horribly, but you still thanked God afterwards for the character He's building in you!"
"I don't know," said Andrew, scratching his head. "Isn't that pride? Talking about how cool I am?"
"It can be," admitted Pablo. "But I'm not too worried about that. You know the problem I see with most of the brothers here? It's discouragement because they aren't good enough! Now, that's pride: thinking they can measure up to God's holiness. That pride won't let them admit they had a bad week, even if God got them through it, because 'Good Christians' are supposed to be happy all the time. End result: They don't grow because they give up on an impossible standard! You follow me?"
Andrew nodded cautiously.
"But brother, we serve a God who delights in us; who rejoices over us with singing.6 What's wrong with letting your friends rejoice when you do something right? Even something small? Isn't most of life about small things?"
"I guess...."
"When you get beyond admitting you peeked at Miss February to admitting you had a hard week, you're on the way to real community. And when you can share joy along with pain, your friends are closer than brothers. We're more afraid of confessing our private joys than our private sins any day of the week."
Andrew turned this over in his head. Being afraid to admit good things sounded ridiculous, but as he considered it, he realized that sometimes it was true. Maybe I'm afraid of sounding proud, he thought. Or maybe it's just superstition: If I admit to good things, then they're going to get worse.
"OK, I think I see what you mean," he said slowly. "But what's community have to do with joy?"
"In Philippians, there's a guy named Epaphroditus. Remember him?"
Andrew shrugged. The name sounded vaguely familiar.
"Paul found a huge amount of encouragement when this guy came to visit him in prison.7 Now, do you think Epaphroditus was just some guy Paul shook hands with after church? Or somebody who tried to look super-spiritual in his small group?"
"Probably not...."
"Of course not! Paul says they shared ministry and friendship. Would he celebrate over some clown he hardly knew? Here's the true test of community, brother: Is it joy to be with them? Do they encourage you; lift you up closer to Christ? Do you look forward to basking in their love? Sounds to me like your 'small group' isn't very encouraging. You only go to the Spanish Inquisition because you feel guilty, and then you leave feeling even worse."
Andrew shrugged again. He was doing a lot of that in this conversation, and it made him uncomfortable. The problem was, Pablo was right on the money with just about everything. He wanted to disagree with something ... but he couldn't.
"Brother, when you share your secret struggles and secret joys with a group of people, you'll rejoice to see them — just like Paul with his buddy Epaphroditus. And if you ask me, that's what real community is about. People who bring you the joy of Jesus."
* * *
Andrew got up to stretch and make another trip to the restroom. As he walked out of the visiting room, he noticed Deonte walk over to Pablo. The two men hugged and struck up a laughing conversation. Guess he practices what he preaches about joyful community, thought Andrew.
He glanced at the clock in the hall and discovered he'd already been talking to Pablo for almost 45 minutes. The time had flown by! The prison's visitation limit was an hour, so he hurried back to the table just as Deonte and Pablo were finishing their conversation.
"You listen to this brother, young man," said Deonte, stabbing a beefy finger in Andrew's direction as he moved back towards the wall. "He'll put you on the right track."
"Now," said Pablo, as Andrew sat back down in his chair. "Where were we? How about if you remind me what brought you to see Hermano Pablo?"
"Uh ... I guess it was ... y'know, boredom," said Andrew.
"Why are you bored?"
The truth is, Andrew had no idea. He'd never been very good at analyzing himself.
"I don't know."
"Fair answer. Let's find out," said Pablo. "What are your goals for life right now?"
"Well ... I want to find a new job. But I haven't really been looking; I know I should. I'd like to get married and have kids — you know, someday. And I guess I want the regular stuff — you know, a house, a new car, whatever."
Suddenly, Andrew thought he realized where Pablo was going with this. "But I should be content with what I have, right?"
"No — never do that! Not about your goals, brother — not if you want to get un-bored! When you don't have a mission, you're just waiting to die," said Pablo passionately.
"But you said —"
"Here's your problem: You need to have the right goals! Is what you just told me what you want carved on your tombstone? 'Here lies Andrew, who got married and bought a McMansion in the suburbs'?"
"No! I want to raise a family and get closer to God and be happy — well, joyful —"
"And who are you taking with you to heaven?"
Andrew shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was afraid evangelism would come up eventually, and he'd been dreading the thought. "I don't know ... I mean, I try to witness. But it never works."
"It usually doesn't," said Pablo, "because people get all the commercials they need on TV. Why should they buy Jesus?"
"What?"
"The TV's selling cars; you're selling Personal Saviors. Why should people listen?"
"Well — because God loves them, like we were talking about —"
"Do you love them?"
Andrew scratched his head. Last time he tried witnessing, it was by passing out tracts at work — and almost got fired for it. But the truth is, he'd been motivated by a lot more guilt than love.
"It's interesting, brother," continued Pablo, "how Paul structured Philippians.
Chapter 1 is mostly about preaching Christ.8 Then chapter 2 tells us to humbly serve like Christ.9 I mean, Jesus gave up heaven to visit this sinful mess we call home. I don't care how many feet you wash, you'll never stoop that low! But would we have listened to Him preach any other way?"
Andrew nodded. He'd never thought about it quite like that before.
"The goal for us all is knowing Jesus more — always remember that," said Pablo, warming to his subject. "It's your goal, my goal, even your jerk boss's goal. Of course, he doesn't know it, and you're supposed to tell him. But why should he pay attention when you're a God salesman? He doesn't listen to the announcer hawking Toyotas, either."
"I'm hoping that gets me off the hook for witnessing," said Andrew wryly, "but I bet you have something else in mind."
"Ah, you're starting to learn my secrets! Imagine this, brother: What if you went out of your way to be a standout employee? What if you were more honest; more hardworking; more eager to help? Not because you're brown-nosing — but because you're working for Jesus instead of the company? Would that make the boss curious about you?"
Andrew shrugged. "He's not a very curious guy."
"OK, what if you volunteered at a homeless shelter? What if you started a Bible study here at Fairview? What if you went around to businesses and offered to clean their toilets? What if you read to people in a nursing home? What if —"
"I get the idea," said Andrew, holding up his hands. "That's serving — like Jesus served us. But is it preaching the gospel?"
"It is if you do it right," Pablo responded. "Jesus offered healings and parables, all for one low price!10 When you serve people nobody else wants to smell, you better believe they'll get curious about why you're there. When a man realizes he'll spend his best years making license plates, you'd be surprised how much he wants to hear about God."
"I liked my goals better than yours," muttered Andrew. "You know, a wife and a house in the suburbs —"
" — and that's exactly why you're bored," said Pablo promptly. "God made you for a greater purpose."
"So I should start serving? That's the new goal?"
"And pray for ways to share Jesus. Every day, I say, 'Lord, show me who I can serve today. Show me who needs Your love.' I won't say I'm never bored ... but not very often."
"Sounds kind of scary," said Andrew nervously.
"Sounds kind of joyful," corrected Pablo.
* * *
Andrew realized that his time with Pablo was almost over, but he didn't want to leave. He felt like he'd met a new friend; someone who, after only an hour, wasn't afraid to challenge him in love. I think this is real community, thought Andrew.
Pablo looked down at his watch. "Right now there's nothing I'd like more than to talk longer," he said. (And Andrew could tell he actually meant it.) "But in a few minutes, Deonte has to take me upstairs, and you have to drive home. Now, I need to give you a warning before you leave."
A warning? Andrew eyed Pablo cautiously.
"Here it is: The more joyful you get, the more you'll want to die," said Pablo.
Andrew stared blankly. That didn't make any sense.
"It's true, brother. When you put confidence in Christ, promotions and applause don't matter anymore, because your ego doesn't need it," said Pablo. "The more you find contentment, the more you realize everything you own is a pile of junk. If you discover real community, you won't desire anything you can't take with you when you go. And the more you serve people, the more you long to meet Love Himself."
"So joy gives you get a death wish?" asked Andrew incredulously.
"It makes you realize living is Christ and dying is gain," said Pablo. "You long for Jesus so much you can't stand it, because there's nothing left for you here. But you want to finish whatever God has for you to do before you leave."11
Andrew's mind was swimming. Yes, he was glad he'd go to heaven someday — but not now! He had some things he wanted to accomplish first, thank you very much.
Of course, according to Pablo, he wanted to accomplish the wrong things.
"I don't know," he said simply, after a long pause. "I don't know if I'll ever get there. I mean, I can't see wanting heaven that bad. I like life. Even when it's boring ... I can't imagine leaving it."
Pablo nodded. "It's harder on the outside, brother," he said. "The world is trying to give you heaven now because they don't believe in anything else. Inside, in prison ... well, I know the only way I'll ever be a free man is when I go to be with Jesus."
Andrew smiled. "Are you trying to make me jealous?"
"I just know it's easier here, brother. Sometimes I think everyone should spend a year or so in jail. Not for a crime — just to love Jesus more."
Andrew smiled. "I don't think you'd find many honest citizens who agree with you. But listen ... I just don't know about this. I can't imagine wanting heaven that much, that in some way, I kind of ... want to die."
"Most people can't," said Pablo. "But if you start looking for joy ... you might be surprised what happens. Heaven has a way of sneaking up on you."
Deonte walked over towards the table and motioned to Pablo. The inmate stood up.
"Come back again, brother," he said. "I want to hear how the joy's coming along."
"Count on it," said Andrew.
He reached out to shake Pablo's hand, but Pablo wrapped him in a huge bear hug.
"Brothers don't shake hands," he said.
Deonte led Pablo out of the visiting room, and Andrew was surprised to feel a lump rising in his throat. "I'll be back, Pablo," he said.
"I'll see you here, there, or in the air," said Pablo, grinning. Then he walked through a heavy steel door with the guard.
Andrew stood staring after him, lost in a confusing mix of thoughts, until a guard growled at him to leave.
* * *
Andrew drove home slowly, mind full of ideas. He was already starting to put some of Pablo's thoughts into action. When his heater took a while to warm up, he thanked God for the cold. When he thought how nice it would be to find a new job, he remembered how blessed he was to have one in the middle of a recession.
But his strangest thought of all came later in the trip, when he was almost home.
Andrew realized that he wanted to call the prison right away and schedule another visit with Pablo, but he would probably have to wait weeks — maybe months — to see him. And although he'd only met the man once, that felt like a very long time.
Then suddenly, the thought came to his mind that in heaven, he could talk with Pablo as much as he wanted. And just for a moment, he thought maybe heaven would be better than he was giving it credit for.
It was in that instant that Andrew Baxter felt something strange stir inside his soul. He wasn't sure what it was, because he hadn't felt it in a very long time.
But he thought maybe — just maybe — it was a twinge of joy.
* * *
NOTES
1. Check out Acts 16:16-34.
2. Philippians 4:6-7.
3. Read I Thessalonians 5:17-18. (No, this verse isn't from Philippians. So sue me.)
4. Philippians 4:11-13.
5. James 5:16.
6. Zephaniah 3:17.
7. See Philippians 2:25-30. It's also worth looking at what Paul says about his friend Timothy in verses 19-24 of the same chapter.
8. See, for example, Philippians 1:12-18.
9. Philippians 2:1-11 is the most beautiful passage in Paul's book — and perhaps the most challenging. Take a look.
10. We American Christians are good at forgetting this. We want to emphasize either Jesus' mercy ministries, like healing and feeding people, or His proclamations about being a good disciple and encountering God. But the reality is, His "gospel" teachings are inseparable from His "practical" ministry. He was committed to both, because they both build the Kingdom of Heaven.
11. Read Philippians 1:19-26.