‘‘The harvest is great, but the workers are few.” Matthew 9:37
“The harvest is great,” I repeat the Bible verse, determined I won’t neglect my duty to harvest lost souls alongside Jesus faithfully.
“There are so few workers,” I remind myself, hurrying to find Him. So many souls need to know His touch.
Trying to spot Jesus, I quickly noticed I was not alone with Him today. Many others occupied His presence, which I thought was secluded and exclusive for me.
I walk past a blind man, his eyes fixed, staring in front of him, seeing nothing. “Please help me?” He asks, His hand outstretched, pleading for anyone to come and lead him.
“Someone should be here to help you soon,” I tell him as I pass.
A voluptuous-looking woman stands in a corner, dressed in clothing that leaves little to one’s imagination. Her makeup is heavily and seductively applied to allure those she targets.
“A prostitute, I’m assuming,” I comment to myself, turning away, revulsed. “I wonder if Jesus knows she’s here?”
I pass an overweight man in a wheelchair, his large, swollen feet and legs making it impossible to hold himself in a standing position.
“I’m sure he has a story to tell.” I thought caustically as I turned quickly away from him in the opposite direction.
I stop in front of a woman lying on her side, the smell of alcohol, vomit, and days of being unwashed causing me to gag and look for a way I could go around her, keeping upwind of the intensity of her odor. But finding no other way, I cup my hand, placing it over my mouth and nose, and step over her.
Finally, I spot Jesus. He kneels before an elderly couple, smiling at them with quiet compassion. He speaks tenderly while His hands cover their own, encouraging them. The couple returns His smile, their gray heads nodding in agreement.
Jesus stands, scans the area, and moves towards the alcoholic woman I had just stepped over. He stops and stoops down to touch her shoulder, speaking tenderly, waking the woman from her drunken stupor. Jesus offers her His hand as she does her best to get into a sitting position.
“Daughter, are you ready to rise onto your feet?” Jesus asks her.
She nods her confirmation with a sweet longing on her face. Jesus pulls her onto her feet and embraces her. He smiles again and touches the woman’s cheek.
“Doesn’t Jesus know how unwashed she is? How can He stand the smell? Who knows where she’s been.” I question critically.
He spots me and starts to walk towards me but pauses first to hug the prostitute. He speaks to her quietly and asks her where her accusers are. She shrugs while looking around. Jesus pulls her into another hug, speaking words for her only. She smiles at Him and nods.
After stopping multiple times to greet others who were considered marginalized, Jesus stepped to stand beside me.
“What are all these people doing here?” I ask Jesus, emphasizing ‘these’ as if I were talking about the trash.
“They had nowhere else to turn, Child.” He answers calmly and graciously, but His voice holds an authority of protection over them.
“They are here because I call all to come and find Me in their most vulnerable, broken, and wounded place. They have been walked around and omitted from society, considered and treated as ‘lepers’ when all they ever wanted was to be loved and important to someone. They wanted so much to be touched.”
Jesus’ voice breaks as a deep grief is visible in His eyes.
I averted my gaze; I could not bear to look into the grief surrounding me. I realized His sorrow was not only for the destitute He had just touched but also for me. I had entered His presence with a critical and judgmental spirit. My self-righteousness broke His heart and kept me from being His touch—His extended hands. I had missed the crucial purpose of why Jesus came, suffered, and died. I had overlooked the meaning of His harvest, which was always about His love and grace for all people. It was about His touch. Jesus deeply grieved for me.
“Jesus, can you forgive me?” My request for forgiveness sounded feeble. I could not make eye contact with Him and kept my eyes down—conviction of how my pride and self-righteousness affected Him.
Jesus reached out, lovingly touching my cheek with the same hand that had touched the cheek of the alcoholic woman.
“Child, I didn’t lead you into my presence to condemn you. I brought you to this point to teach you how to be My touch.”
Jesus smiles affectionately at me, “But, Child, the most important lesson I have for you now is to know My touch.”
I consider Jesus’ words, smiling slightly, not completely understanding how I could ever extend the loving touch He was offering me now when I so clearly didn’t deserve it.
“My touch can be as simple as a smile, Child,” Jesus explains patiently, reading my thoughts. “My touch can be when you stop to listen, especially when you have no time. My touch is when you place others ahead of yourself with no observance of who they are, but only because they are ‘someone.’”
“Jesus, I understand, and I want to be Your hands extended, but how can I be Your touch to so many?” I ask, still not convinced I can ever be His touch.
Jesus laughs as He turns, looking back towards the man in the wheelchair I had passed by. Placing His arm around my shoulders, Jesus begins stepping towards him.
“You’ll be fine, Child,” Jesus affirms. “Let’s get busy and take this one touch at a time.”