Men of the Cross - Reluctant Witness

"Hey, look at this newspaper," Marcus said. I'd already seen it. The front-page featured a photo of a nude couple. That was 30 years ago, but already a common sight on the streets of San Francisco.

I disregarded his smirk, and started to walk away. Too late. He dropped two quarters into the slot, waved the tabloid high, and stuck it under his arm. I must have betrayed my disgust, as he smirked again.

We'd become friends through our profession, although Marcus was 18 years my senior. I appreciated his wit and keen mind, but his random off-color remarks signaled an abyss between us. Marcus needed Christ, but I shrank from sharing the gospel with him. I had doubts about spending an entire convention week with him, but joined him in San Francisco, anyway.

Three years before, I'd surrendered my will to Christ—20 years after accepting Him as Savior. From that time, He'd shown himself trustworthy. Despite this, I didn't trust Jesus with my image in the outside world. Off-color stories and comments about "religious fanatics" were common in the drafting room where I worked.

Despite my efforts to keep religion off the radar, cir*****stances seemed geared toward blowing my cover. One afternoon break, my conversation with Phil, a fellow intern, took an unexpected turn. Out of the blue, he asked, "How's a guy to know what he's supposed to do? How do you make your decisions?"

I tried to bypass that theological minefield, muttering, "You've just got to do the best you can, check all options, etc."

Phil wasn't buying that, "No, I'm serious. How do you make decisions? What guides you? Isn't there a right and wrong way of doing things? What do you do?"

I heard myself saying, "Jesus Christ is why...He's the reason...He shows me how to live."

I searched Phil's face for a belittling remark, for a sneer that would imply I was a naive fool, or a goody-two-shoes. I got neither. Like lightning, the name "Jesus Christ" had ignited the moment with an extraordinary dynamic. Phil didn't condemn me, or even ignore what I'd said. To my amazement, he listened with eager attention to my hesitant testimony. The conversation took a life of its own, as if someone else was directing it.

I realized later that God had controlled that discussion. Phil asked all the right questions; I only responded. That afternoon was a turning point for me. Despite myself, I'd trusted Jesus Christ to deal with a touchy subject, and there He was. I recalled a verse that said not to worry about what to say, for the Holy Spirit would give the right words.

I was elated to be witnessing to another person—but more so to realize that God could be trusted to lead me through the valley of rejection. Phil and I parted with a new appreciation for one another. I left the firm shortly thereafter, but could point back to that conversation as a watershed in my Christian walk. The convention week with Marcus would test it to a new level.

Upon our return to the hotel room, Marcus spread out the front page of the tabloid, wagging a finger at the photo, "Sam, you really didn't give this a look. What do you think of that?"

I felt cornered and turned away. Marcus repeated his question. Finally, the turmoil inside me percolated out, "Marcus, that's disgusting! That offends me. Why do you keep looking at that awful stuff?"

I continued, rebuking him for soiling his mind with such garbage. I knew I was abandoning the fragile fortress of accommodation that I maintained between us. We faced each other; both surprised at my outburst. I waited for his rebuttal. None came. This urbane, sophisticated architect and world traveler seemed taken aback. Confusion and pain etched his face. I hesitated.

He struggled to speak. Haltingly, amazing words came out; "I'm a terrible, terrible man. I'm a sinner. I don't know why I'm this way. I love Elaine, but I keep doing this. I'm a disgusting person." He began to weep.

It was my turn to be taken aback. The room seemed charged, electric with unseen forces. I felt the presence of The Almighty triumphant in that room, and sensed that strongholds were crumbling. I was simultaneously humbled and awestruck.

That week in San Francisco was the beginning of a deep and abiding friendship with Marcus. I talked with him several times over the years about truly knowing the Savior. Three years ago, he and Elaine traveled across the country to see us. He still held Christ at arm's length, but before they left, he said, "I want you to know, I pray for you every night." Tears welled in his eyes, and I knew he was trying to reach out to God.

Three months later, Elaine called to tell us that Marcus had had a cerebral hemorrhage. She got him to Georgetown Hospital in time to save his life. His right side was paralyzed and he couldn't speak, but his mind remained alert. That fall, I took my wife and son with me on a business trip to the East Coast. We visited Marcus and Elaine in their home. After dinner, she wheeled him into his bedroom, and before leaving, I went in to see him one last time.

I sat on the edge of his bed, and we contemplated one another in silence. Finally I said, "Marcus, you know God loves you. You've been through so much, but he wants you to be part of his family. Will you receive Jesus Christ into your heart?"

I'd barely asked the question before Marcus grabbed my arm with his good hand, and with his eyes beseeching mine, he nodded vigorously, "Yes! Yes!"

It was my turn to weep.

Note: About the Author: Samuel Hall has been writing for the past 10 years and is a member of Oregon Christian Writers. A native Oklahoman, he has practiced as an architect in the American West and Alaska, as well as in Southern Africa. He is also an amateur photographer. He and his wife live in Salem, Oregon. They have three grown children.


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