As a youngster, I had always heard about the “pecking order” but never understood it until we had our own chickens. For some reason known only to the Creator, one or two hens will be the chosen ones – the ones who will get pecked at when she’s simply scooting up to the feed bowl. Because some chickens will peck another hen literally to death, some farmers place a red lamp inside the hen house, thus disguising the blood. Seeing blood enhances the cruel drive to peck even more. Some farmers use a specific medication to help heal the pecked skin because the purple color also disguises the blood.
Chicken farmers have their own advice to cure or to ignore this problem, but I can’t ignore it; I always cheer for the underdog, uh, the under-chicken. So when I feed them, I give a good portion in the regular feed bowl and then I walk over to where I see the runt and I lay some on the ground for her. Naturally, all the other chickens see what I have just done so they scurry over to eat the runt’s share. Therefore, the runt walks over to the regular feed bowl and eats until, of course, the others see her and run back to scold and peck.
Always watching for the little guy is a wise move for chicken farmers and for people.
A while back my family decided to change churches for doctrinal reasons. Not normal church hoppers, the knowledge of churches of like faith, close by, was lacking. We searched the internet, asked other Christians about local churches and their philosophy and music and pastor, etc. Then we started making our rounds.
This was a new experience for our family since normally we attended the church associated with the Christian school at which I taught. Now we had several options. We started with the church closest to our house. Though the church name said “Baptist” on the sign, we were shocked as we attended the service.
A man shook our hand, said, “Good morning,” and walked away. We looked at each other: did we have breakfast still on our face? All morning, no one stopped at our pew and chatted with us.
We tried the evening service at another church pastored by a graduate from a well-known Christian college, according to the church website. One or two people shook our hand during “shaking hands time” and walked away.
Over the next four or five months, we visited good, fundamental, independent Baptist churches – probably ten or fifteen in all – within a forty-five-minute drive of our house located in the very center of the Bible belt. Time and time again, we were stunned. Church members noticed us, stared, walked on by. Sometimes the “official greeter” greeted us, pointed to the auditorium, and then walked away. For some of the services, I went alone for various reasons. Sometimes the children and I went. Our children were so tired of being ignored, they soon began to give excuses why they shouldn’t even go to church until the parents had found one that was worth attending.
What if I had been in the pit of despair and told God, “Ok, God; I’ll give church one more try?” And no one cared enough to ask me my name.
What if our marriage were on the rocks and we were looking for a pastor to care and this one didn’t even care enough to introduce himself to us?
For the services that I went alone, what if I had been suicidal and had made a pact with God: “Ok, I’ll go visit Your children one more time.”?
We filled out probably ten visitor’s cards: we received one visit and one letter.
At one church we attended for a few weeks, I was under conviction that I should step out and engage the members instead of waiting on them to talk to me. So I walked over to a couple about our age, sat in the pew in front of them, turned around, introduced myself, and held out my hand. The wife looked horrified but they shook my hand and told me their names. I asked how long they’ve been coming to this church. They answered.
Then I asked what I thought was an innocent question: “How many children do you have?” Who doesn’t like to talk about their children? Since they were about our age, I knew that they may possibly even have grandchildren.
She looked at her husband and stuttered, “Uh,. . .well, .. . two.”
I didn’t understand why she looked at her husband; shouldn’t she know how many children she had? I wasn’t asking for social security numbers, addresses, telephone numbers, and blood type. I was trying to hold a simple conversation with a brother and sister in Christ about non-controversial topics. I asked all the simple questions I knew. They answered in one- or two-word answers. I returned to my seat, confused. Convicted.
Have I been guilty of ignoring a visitor out of fear? Or was it just simple ol’ pride: this is my church and I have my ministry to my people and I have to get things organized for the service and I am so important and I. . . What choice friendships have I missed out because of my fear or my pride? Who did I “peck on” because he was not in my line of ministry or because I didn’t know him? What wound did I fail to even notice because I was not watching for opportunities to be like Christ? Whom did I not minister to because I was too lazy to get up and walk across the auditorium? Who never gave God another chance because the Christians at my church didn’t even care enough to ask him his name?
