Witnessing That Jesus Christ Is the Lord

Driving my motorcycle down a country highway, I heard a metallic pop and instantly lost all power. Steering to the side of the road I coasted to a halt about a yard this side of a driveway that meandered up to an impressive looking estate.

Since there was no traffic on this seldom used road I jogged up the driveway to the country mansion. I hoped to use the phone. When I got there a man answered the door, scowling.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said. “My bike chain broke out on the road. I wonder if I might use your phone to make a quick call.”

“No,” he said. “You can’t.”

Stunned, I studied his face. Uncut whiskers. Red cheeks. Balding scalp. Blotchy rings under his eyes. Not a happy fellow.

“Well, it’s a long walk back to town," I said. "I’ll just be on the phone a moment.”

“So you think you can invade a man's property and use his phone like its yours?”

I reached for my wallet. “I’ll be glad to pay you five dollars.” 

“Never mind,” he said curtly. He unlocked the screen and opened it. “Just hurry up.”

Marching ahead of me, he led me to a living room phone, then sat down in a nearby chair and stared at me. I felt so self-conscious that I forget my friend’s phone number. “May I use your directory?”

He strutted off to another room and in a minute came back with a phone book in one hand one and a drink in the other. “So what are you doing out this way, anyhow? Not many people use that old highway.”

“I was taking my bike out for a spin. I bought it secondhand last week. I’m a student at the seminary.”

“Oh, one of those Jesus nuts.”

I found the number and dialed it. No answer. I sighed.

“So where’s God when you need him?” asked the man.

I hung up the receiver. “That’s a good question,” I said. “I didn’t even think God existed until a couple years ago. I was a died-in-the-wool atheist.”

“Like me,” he said. “So then you got religion?”

“Not really. I don’t like religion much. But what happened was I stumbled into a church service one night and heard a message that Jesus is still alive. It was at a time when I felt very alone. At the altar call I went down and told Jesus that if this was true—if he was a real person who really existed—then I wanted to know him. I felt a peace come into me that has changed my life direction.”

The man swirled the ice cubes in his glass and sipped. “I don’t believe any of that God crap,” he said. “But I know what you mean about being lonely.”

“How’s that?”

“I never got married and both my parents are dead. I made a lot of money in manufacturing and retired when I was fifty. I bought this place.”

I looked around at the Arabian carpet and fine furnishings. “It’s a great place.”

“Yeah, but it don't mean much when you're all alone. This Jesus thing you got. Does it comfort you?”

"Not always. But most of the time, yes. I feel comforted by the Holy Spirit."

He grunted and stood up, gesturing toward to the door. “I have a piece of advice for you. Jesus is just a crutch. Him and the Holy Ghost are imaginary friends you made up in your head to keep you company. When you have as much money as I do, you can buy any god you want. But the God you're talking about doesn't exist.” He opened the screen door to usher me out.

“Would it be possible to give me a lift back into town?” I asked.

“No. My favorite show's about to start. But since Jesus is such a good friend to you, I'm sure he'll help you out, right?” 

“Yes," I said. “He will.” I turned and started jogging down the driveway toward the highway, feeling way out on a limb with no one to help me. But Jesus.

I didn’t feel comforted. I felt lousy. I felt upset. I felt mad—at God. For leaving me stranded in a place I didn’t want to be with a man I never wanted to see again. Worse than that, I felt humiliated. Here I was telling this guy that the Lord Jesus Christ is alive today, and that the Holy Spirit watches out for me. And now this same guy was chuckling at my stupidity and watching me hoof it down the road to my busted motorcycle.

“Jesus, where are you when I need you?” I grumped.

Back at the motorcycle I knelt down and gathered the loose chain that lay like a dead snake underneath my bike. Ten miles. Should I push the bike or set out jogging and hopefully make it to town before midnight? Would the bike be safe or would someone load it into the back of a pickup and drive off? Did God know anything about bikes, chains, and stranded hitchhikers or was he too busy guiding stars in their orbits around the Milky Way? I kicked the bike. It fell over. My toe hurt. I felt like a fool.

I perked my ears at the sound of an approaching vehicle. Over the hill came a truck. I waved my arms to signal distress. As I did so I noticed out of the corner of my eye the man in the mansion, still standing on his porch, still swirling his drink, watching. My drama must have proved more entertaining than the TV show.

The driver pulled over and got out of the truck. He walked straight to my bike. 

“Chain break?” he asked.

“Yeah. I don’t have any tools.”

“No problem,” he said. Underneath his billed cap I saw the flash of friendly eyes. “Burt’s Motorcycle Shop,” he said, pointing to the sign on the side of truck. “I’m Burt.”

Some people call it luck. Others call it fate or good karma. I call it the God who is there. Burt and I rolled my bike up the ramp and secured it in the back of his truck. 

I hopped into the passenger seat, opened the window, and waved goodbye to the man in the mansion, the Holy Spirit having authenticated my witness that Jesus Christ is the Lord.