The Children of Abraham Revisited

 

Recently, I was asked to reflect on the people in my life who had influenced me.

The normal folks came to mind:  grandparents, parents, wife, children, grandchildren, friends.

After spending more time reflecting on the question, my memory was flooded by thoughts of my call to ministry, and who all had shaped that call.

It began as early as 1952.  I was seven years old.

One person whose influence I remember cannot be identified for his own safety.  As you hear my story, I will leave out the name.  You will understand why as you read.  I am compelled to share the events, however, as memories have flooded my mind while I have been preparing to preach on this World Communion Sunday.

Lambuth Memorial Methodist Church (at that time) was my home church. It is still located one block from the Lambuth campus. At that time, there were no chapel services on Sunday, nor meals served in the cafeteria. Our pastor at the time created a visionary ministry with students. Families of the church "adopted" a student during their time at Lambuth. That is where the story begins.

During that year, Lambuth College had its first international student.  He was from India.  Dean Wood Whetstone had recruited him while a missionary in Lucknow, India.

Another new international student arrived later that year.  When he came to our church he stood out.  He was very dark-skinned.  He was also from Jordan.  For many reasons, one of which was that I was an only child, my parents took the courageous step and adopted him. 

In my later years, I understood why my father took that step.  He, himself, had been adopted from the Orphan Train of the early 1900’s.  He knew what it meant to be separated and not being chosen as he stopped at each whistle stop from New York to Hastings, Nebraska where he was “chosen” after his brother had been “chosen” 100 miles further east.  When my father was in his late 60's, he was able to find his brother.

My “brother” came home with us for lunch every Sunday.  Often, we would spend the whole day until he had to return to Epworth Hall.  I learned what it meant to have an older brother from him.  I also learned much more.

He was from the Muslim faith.  He was devout and stopped all activities for his regular prayers.  He often told me of his faith’s love of Jesus, and that he loved him as well.  I know that he prayed for me each day, and I prayed for him.  I still do, trusting God to connect us in prayer.

Over the four years that we were together, another event occurred.  Our church’s boiler in the basement caught fire and destroyed our church’s sanctuary.  In our grief, we wondered where would we worship.  An invitation came from the Jewish synagogue down the street.  Gratefully, Lambuth Memorial accepted the gracious invitation.  We worshipped there on Sundays while the church made arrangements to rebuild.  My brother went with us to worship.  The "Children of Abraham" had connected.

As he came to graduation in 1956, his parents were unable to come to Lambuth.  He invited me to come and share that time of joy as his brother.  The war in the Middle East prevented his parents from leaving Jordan.  After the ceremony he told me that he would return when I graduated from Lambuth.  I had never considered the college even though it was only a block away and I was now only eleven years old.  He set in motion a spiritual path toward a call to ministry that began to grow as a student at Lambuth from 1963-1967.

We wrote each other often during those years.  When it came my time to graduate, June 5, 1967, students of history will know why he was unable to come.  Another Middle Eastern war.  After which, we lost contact.

My last attempt to contact him was just before the Gulf War when I discovered his address:  Kuwait.  The person I had asked to call - a Lambuth student from Saudi Arabia who was going home - was unable to do so because he discovered that my brother's telephone line sounded as if it were “tapped.”

Why do I tell you all this?

In short, my call to ministry has been shaped by not only my Christian family, but by my brothers and sisters of Abraham and the warfare that has separated us.

Perhaps, in the current chaos that is our world, we need to hear again our own calls to ministry to pray for God to break down the walls that divide us from each other.  This Sunday, Wold Communion Sunday, means more to me than many of our celebrations of the Eucharist because of these "shapings" of my life.

I am sure that my brother has gone “to the bosom of Abraham” by now.  I am equally sure that we will meet again someday.  His name is known to God, as is yours.

• Brother Simeon, remembering the crusts of spiritual bread that have been shared with me.