Jeff Lucas was told the man in question was kind and utterly trustworthy. But he still felt uncomfortable when a stranger moved into his house
It was a mantra drummed into me as a child, along with “always say please and thank you” and, in our working-class family with limited resources, “finish what’s on your plate.” I generally do as I’m told, and so, in my early days I ate every scrap of my school dinner – some resembling the aerial view of a farmyard – still expressing the required gratitude. But one saying looms large, a safeguarding sentence repeated whenever I went to play football in the park: “Don’t talk to strangers!”
In my young mind, a stranger signalled menace. I probably screamed and sprinted away from a few perfectly innocent souls, but hey, better safe than sorry. I was hardwired to be suspicious of an unfamiliar face from an early age.
Thus, years later, when a total stranger suddenly moved into my house, I felt extremely anxious. I was told that he was kind and utterly trustworthy. Apparently, he’d paid a lot to be a part of my household, but still he set me on edge. For one thing, I heard that he could be unpredictable, and my nervousness increased as I learned that he was quite demanding. Insisting that he knew best, he quickly made it evident he expected to oversee the place. Before he showed up, I’d lived independently, often with disastrous results. Now, before making any major decision, I was expected to ask him for planning permission.
To make matters more challenging, he said little — at least in my hearing — so I was constantly left wondering what he was thinking. And to cap it all, he was invisible.
The stranger, of course, is Jesus. In the book of Revelation, he portrays himself as knocking on the doors of our lives, lamp in hand, requesting entry, if you please (3:20). And in talking about his followers, Jesus taught: “Anyone who loves me will obey my teaching. My Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them” (John 14:23). Ultimately, that speaks of our eternal future, but in the meantime, the gospel message is that Christ does not just come to us but lives in us. It says in 1 Corinthians 6:19 that our bodies are temples. We’ve opened that door, and God has moved in.
That truth is wonderful, reassuring and, at times, utterly bewildering. As a new Christian, I desperately wanted to please the Lord, but he’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met. The theologian Rudolph Otto described him as “the great stranger”, powerful and holy like no other. He comes as Lord, not advisor. He gives everything and demands all of us. He reveals so much but leaves more in mystery.
I heard that he had a perfect plan for my life, but finding it felt like piecing together a 10,000-piece jigsaw puzzle. Some described prayer as a conversation, but usually he didn’t seem very chatty.
And that’s why I remain grateful that, in my early days of faith, I was part of a nurturing church family, led by a pastor who truly had a shepherd’s heart. They gently guided me through my confusion and settled my soul when I feared that I’d terminally displeased Jesus.
So, when someone responds to Christ and experiences the joy and disorientation of new discipleship, let’s not just pat them on the back, but take them into our hearts. Let’s be willing to answer their enquiries, never dismissing any as silly and, when they stumble, keep silent with our tut-tutting. In time, they’ll come to discover the truth: that the stranger is the very best friend there is. Knowing that he is now at home with us, we can rest in being at home with him.
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