Favor. 

It was December 24, 2017. In that season, Church of the Harbor met for worship on Sunday evenings, and this particular year, Christmas Eve happened to fall on a Sunday. The weather was mild, in the forties and cloudy, the kind of evening that didn’t feel especially festive on its own, but carried a quiet anticipation because of what we knew the night was meant to celebrate. People were gathering in the worship room, greeting one another, settling into their seats, expecting to sing familiar hymns and hear a short message about the birth of Jesus. As the time to begin approached, I saw a familiar sight. Danny, who had become a regular over the past several months, walked slowly through the back doors of the sanctuary.

The building we were renting was on the historic registry and lacked many of the amenities found in more modern spaces. There was no elevator, and for those who needed assistance, a stair lift was available, which required a staff member to operate it. Danny would often wait at the bottom until someone could help him, and even then, everything about his movement required a little extra time.

Danny moved through life slowly, not by preference, but because of limitations he faced. His legs were swollen, and he used a walker, though even with it, walking was not easy. He would plant one foot, steady himself, and then bring the other forward, repeating the process in a rhythm that made everything take longer than most of us were used to. Many people were impatient with Danny, and he struggled to be patient with himself. Wherever he went, Danny carried a backpack with essentially everything he owned contained within it. When he entered the room that Sunday night, just as we were beginning, he made his way slowly to the seat he normally occupied on the left side, about halfway back.

Danny didn’t talk much. I had seen him almost every week for months, and I had sat across from him over a meal many times. Even then, he kept most of his life to himself. When I asked questions, his answers were often short, and they rarely led anywhere further. It wasn’t resistance as much as it was distance, as though he simply wasn’t comfortable sharing certain parts of his life. Still, in his slow, soft-spoken way, Danny was a pleasure to be around.

Throughout his life, Danny had been loosely connected to the church. He’d attended intermittently, more often as a child, and in more recent years, his entering church spaces had often been tied to food pantries scattered throughout our neighborhoods. Church of the Harbor didn’t have a pantry, but every week after our service, we shared a hot meal together, and that meal had become something Danny not only depended on but looked forward to. Danny appreciated the meals, and he told us so. When he sat down to eat, his plate was often full, more than most people would take, and he ate slowly, deliberately, focusing more on the food in front of him than the other people at the table.

Over those months, Danny heard the gospel repeatedly, and he would often circle around the same place. He wanted forgiveness. He wanted to be right with God. He wanted the peace he heard about. But when the conversation moved toward what it meant to follow Jesus fully, something held him back. Each time, in his own quiet way, he would stop short, as though he had come right up to a line he wasn’t ready to cross.

That Sunday night, I preached from Luke 2, the familiar passage that speaks of peace on earth to people whom God favors. As I closed, before we lit candles and sang Silent Night, I asked, as I often did, if anyone in the room wanted God’s peace in their life. Normally, I would have invited those gathered to respond on a card, something more private, but because of the nature of the service, I simply asked for a show of hands. Danny raised his.

After the service, the congregation made our way to the fellowship hall for our annual Christmas dinner. Every week, our meals team provided a good meal with a limited budget, but this night was different. There was ham and turkey, mashed potatoes and green beans, rolls and dessert, and the room felt full in a way that went beyond the food itself.

Because Danny had responded, and because he struggled to move freely, I offered to make him a plate and asked him to sit down, telling him I would join him in a moment. When I sat across from him, we talked as we had many times before, slowly, with my asking questions and his providing answers that were short and few. Then I turned the conversation to spiritual things.

Where in the past Danny had always stopped short, this time he did not. Without many words, and in the same mild way he carried himself in every other setting, Danny told me he wanted to be someone whom God favors. We talked through what it means to trust in Christ, to turn from sin, to follow Him, and there, at that table, with the sounds of the room around us and a half-finished meal in front of him, Danny professed faith in Jesus. I was overjoyed. We briefly discussed baptism in the coming weeks. 

When we finished, Danny requested the lift, and slowly made his way out the front door of the church. I remained in the fellowship hall, moving among the tables and talking with our people, when suddenly someone came through the front door yelling for help. The crowded room was brimming with a special kind of holiday energy, but the urgency in the voice cut through the sound in a way that demanded my attention. I got up and ran outside.

The church sat on a small side street, and just beyond it, about half a block away, was a busy four-lane road with a narrow median. At the intersection, there was a stoplight and a crosswalk, and as I looked in that direction, I saw Danny’s walker lying on its side in the street, the contents of his backpack scattered across the pavement, and Danny himself lying in a growing pool of blood. I rushed to him as fast as I could.

There was a light drizzle of rain, and lights from the stopped cars reflected in a way that blended with the Christmas lights from houses across the street. Danny was unconscious with his arms caught in the straps of his backpack. I pulled out a pocket knife and handed it to someone nearby, who cut the bag away. I directed the crowd, anyone, to call 911, and I knelt down. Lifting Danny’s head into my hands, I told him to hold on, that help was coming. People from the church began to gather around as their curiosity drew them to the scene. Some came close, and others stayed farther back. Voices from the crowd mixed, with some whispering, some questioning, and some crying. There was nothing for me to do but stay there, and to remain with Danny. With a sense of utter helplessness, I did as his body failed.

Only minutes earlier, we had sat across from one another at a table. Only minutes earlier, he had told me he wanted the peace of God. As I held his head in my hands, Danny passed from this life into the next.

He had not been ready. And then he was.