He was so happy to be able to share the good news with me. I think he was as close as I have ever seen any person to being a cup of blessing that over-runneth.
I was sitting in Tim Horton's. Not exactly just minding my own business. I was sharing a tea break with a young man who has been attending our church for a few months.
And as soon as he (the joyfully over-flowing bearer of good news, not the young man I was chatting with) came into the Tim's and saw me, he came over and began talking. Quite loudly and exuberantly. With the biggest smile on his face, the most honest joy in his eyes, and the wonder of what he was sharing with me animating his whole body.
It was about the love of God shown to us in Jesus. How Jesus died to save all people. And that it really means all. Not just the good people. Not just the people who believe the right things. Not just the people who do the things that make them (and us) count as "Christian" in the eyes of others.
But everyone. Absolutely everyone. Regardless of the limits and boundaries that we so often put on God's loving forgiveness and embrace.
Over and over the message spilled out of him. That God's saving love embraces every single person in the world. And how can this not affect the way I look at every person? And how I look at what I consider all the things I do to make God love me (more than others)?
Only once and for a few fleeting seconds did I wonder what other people, not being able not to overhear, thought of this. ("Hey honey, I went to Tim's today, and I think a church service broke out.")
But aside from those few regrettable seconds of self-consciousness, I was honestly happy to listen, to witness his joy, to take in the good news, and consciously let it shape the way I looked at others around me, and looked at myself as well.
The incident reminded me of taking my father-in-law to Tim Horton's in the later years of his life when some of his filters had begun to fade. On one occasion as we stood waiting our turn to order our coffee and muffins, he turned to face the person behind us in line, looked the startled man in the eye, placed his right hand on the man's left shoulder, and said quite simply, "I would like to share a blessing with you, that I hope may change your life. May I?"
The man said yes, probably not knowing what else he could say safely.
Then with all the easy solemnity of a man who had spoken these words at the end of many liturgies all his life, Bill said in a quiet, conversational tone: "The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace."
All the while looking the man straight in the eye and with his right hand resting on the man's left shoulder. Then he dropped his hand. He and the other man both smiled.
And we turned to go to the counter to order our coffee and muffins, and then go find a place to sit.
Who says that church -- or at least, the shared memory of God's love, can't break out anywhere we go?
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