I will never forget one of my first Sundays at Fellowship Bible Church in Franklin, TN. It was September 18, 2005, and so far I knew all of two people in the church. Both of whom were over 70 years old.
Walking in through the main entrance that Sunday, I was handed a plastic grocery bag. An empty bag at that. Huh? Why? The guy handing me the bag just grinned. “They’ll explain it during the service.” Twenty minutes later, our lead pastor started talking and as soon as the words “I’ve had people telling me all week that this wasn’t a good idea” came out of his mouth, he had the entire congregation’s FULL attention. He went on to challenge us to give our shoes, the shoes we were wearing, to the less fortunate.
I looked down at my favorite pair of brown sandals, my only pair of brown sandals, and winced. My heart was in my throat, and though some part of me wanted to slip out of the church doors with them on, I couldn’t do it. I stood there with a thousand thoughts flying through my head. I’ll just go home with these shoes, but I’ll bring back a whole bunch of pairs later in the week! That would actually be better for them and I’d get to keep the sandals that I wear all the time.
But truth be told, I didn’t want to be “one of those people” who walked out with their shoes, so I stuffed mine in my plastic bag, uncomfortable at my own unwillingness. Standing there holding onto that bag as if it was a lifeline, I glanced up see my two elderly friends arm-in-arm, hobbling barefoot out of the church, their backs bent over, their smiles stretching from ear to ear. They couldn’t have looked happier.
I will never forget that moment.
In that instant Fellowship became my family. I had found my church, and, for the most part…it was barefoot.
Houston
For months, if not years, afterwards I thought twice about every pair of shoes I wore to church. I left my favorites at home. I even left my favorite coat at home during the Winter because I was sure that sooner or later we’d have a “Coat Sunday” to follow up the “Shoe Sunday.” We never did.
Now, I’m in a new home. A city that is foreign to me in so many ways. A city that I have a feeling is going to make me a lot more uncomfortable than Franklin ever did. And to be honest, I want to hold onto my sandals again, figuratively speaking. I want to wear my old coat in case someone asks me for my nice one. I want to stay on this side of the neighborhood, to stay in the safe suburban life.
And I could.
I can.
I am.
I don’t ever have to be uncomfortable again.
Church
I’m church shopping/hopping these days and wondering where the Lord will want me to go. I went to a great one this last Sunday that I was so hoping would be “it.” Kind of like praying the first person you date will be “the one.” It could happen. 
But something tells me I’d be comfortable there. I’d settle in, stay in my little bubble and never do those things that I’m honestly unwilling to do right now. The things I’m scared to do. The people I’m scared to reach out to. The areas of town my heart aches for, but I’ve yet to set foot in. Sure, I’d be fed within those church walls, but I’d also hide behind them. And something tells me, they’d let me.
When I voiced my struggle to a friend, she told me “Why would you ever want to go to those parts of town anyway? They have people there that can help them. Let them go.”
“You’re right, I should just let them go,” I bit back sarcastically.
But the truth is, she was just saying what I am living. Neither of us wanted to go.
The truth is, I still miss those brown sandals.
What happened to me? Twenty years ago if I’d heard about someone needing my shoes, I would have taken them off before they could have even asked for them. I wouldn’t have cared what pair it was or who they were or if they wanted my shoes for the right reasons. I would have just given them.
I would have just given them.
Twenty years ago, I would have RUN down those inner city streets of Houston, not driven down them checking twice to see if my doors were locked.
But here is what I think stops me, and maybe what stops so much of the church: We have used and abused the verse where Christ tells us not to throw our pearls before swine. We have used it to tie our hands behind our backs, to shut our eyes, to numb our hearts. And we have called the least of these swine, as we held onto what we thought were pearls.
The Least of These
Christ tells us that what we have done for the least of these, we have done for Him.
And here is the soapbox that I am struggling to even crawl up on.
I have to stop living like this. I so want to love my neighbor like I love myself. Not the neighbor that believes like me, votes like me, looks like me, agrees with me, loves me, or even likes me.
I don’t want to stop at sandals. Been there done that. Miss them.
But you know what? In the last five years, I must have looked at a hundred pairs of brown sandals. But something always stops me from buying another pair. How could I? How could I go back? Because those brown sandals represent so much more than just shoes. They represented a life I’m holding onto. A life addicted to comfort, a life held so dear.
I want to learn to give my life. To stare into glazed eyes, to hold dirty hands, to embrace the stench, the stories, the heroes of streets I’m still too d*&$% scared to drive down.
**Photo courtesty of istockphoto.com**
