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Turn left at Manhattan

Andrew Fehr

“I enjoyed your service. I didn’t hear a word you said.”

I hesitated for just a moment. I usually receive a broad range of compliments after a Sunday morning service, but I wasn’t quite sure how to take this one. She seemed sincere enough in her encouragement, and her smile looked as genuine as they come. But that part about not hearing anything I said did leave me slightly puzzled.

There were no doubt many others who also hadn’t heard a thing I said – the daydreamers, the head-bobbers, those teenage girls in the fourth pew from the back who got up three times to go to the washroom. But each of them had responded with the standard, “Great sermon, Pastor.”

This was different. Could it be that I had finally found an honest parishioner?


“Thank . . . you,” I finally managed to sputter.

“I’m deaf,” she said.

Whew! I suddenly felt better. I don’t think I could handle that kind of honesty on a regular basis.

Her husband followed behind, and we quickly struck up a conversation. Their broken English was highlighted by a thick Norwegian accent. She explained that in order to “hear”, she needed to read my lips – something she did amazingly well considering English was her second language. She also told me that if I yelled very loudly, she might be able to make out some of what I was saying.

“Just like my children,” I thought.

Since yelling at a complete stranger who was within normal whispering range while standing in the middle of a small crowd struck me as perhaps being just slightly awkward, I chose to go with the lip reading option.

After a couple of minutes of conversation, the husband jumped in and explained what was fast becoming obvious – she did most of the talking while he did most of the listening. Was this to compensate for the fact that she couldn’t hear, or was he simply telling me that their relationship was quite normal? I didn’t ask.

So it was that an hour later we found ourselves sitting across the table from each other in a crowded restaurant. That’s where I heard their story.

They had been travelling home from their house in Florida to their house on Long Island. When they had reached Manhattan, they had made a left turn and ended up in northern Saskatchewan.

“That’s quite a left turn,” I said.

Yes, but they had a new granddaughter here in Saskatchewan that they had never met, and they thought that this might be a good time to come up and see her. She was being dedicated to the Lord that morning, and although they weren’t the churchgoing type, they had decided to come along and see what this was all about. They had been impressed by the joyful music and the friendly people.

She struggled at times to understand what I was saying, partly because of her limited English and partly because I have a bad habit of talking with my mouth full. We persisted though, and between searching for the right words, remembering to make eye contact and swallowing before I spoke, the discussion went reasonably well. The one English phrase she spoke with amazing clarity and regularity, was, “Pardon me?” They were very open to hearing about God, and very curious to know what we believed. She said that it was good to talk to an expert because she had lots of questions. I told her I was no expert but I would try to answer what I could.

After the meal, the questions continued. “What is a Mennonite?” They had recently spent a night in an Amish community. Why were we different from them?

“There are many different cultures,” I said. “What matters is your relationship with God.”

“Should we call you ‘Father’?”

“Only my children call me ‘father’. Other people call me all sorts of things.”

“Why don’t you wear a white collar?”

“They never gave me one.”

“Why are there so many religions?”

“Because of the degenerate state of the human heart and the futility of life isolated from Him.”

“Pardon me?”

“Because people are searching for the truth.”

“Oh.”

“Do you believe in hell?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that scary?”

“No. Not if Jesus is in your heart.”

“Pardon me?”

I hesitated for a moment as I searched for the words that would explain in simple terms what it means to put your faith in Christ.

I took too long. She assumed that I might be stuck for an answer and, in an attempt to help me out, offered her own. “I guess there are many roads that lead to heaven.”

Not exactly the conclusion I was hoping for. I had to move quickly. “There’s only one Jesus, and He said He’s the only way to God.”

“Pardon me?”

“I SAID, THERE’S ONLY ONE JESUS, AND HE SAID HE’S THE ONLY WAY TO GOD!”

Every head in the suddenly silent restaurant snapped towards me. I wasn’t sure she had heard me, but I knew everyone else had. I waited for someone to cough or shuffle a chair or perhaps drop a pin to shatter the silence, but no such luck.

I carried on. “The Bible tells us that we all need a Saviour. Jesus is that Saviour. When we choose to trust in Him, God forgives our sins. That’s the only way to get into heaven.”

We talked for several more minutes and then said goodbye. I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again. Maybe if they come to visit their granddaughter again, I will. I hope so.

I’m not sure how much of the gospel they understood. They saw the joy of the Lord on the faces of the people in church that Sunday morning, and they listened patiently that afternoon as the preacher tried to answer their questions. They were searching, and I have to believe God’s promise that those who seek Him will find Him.

Who knows how many other left turns they will make that will lead to conversations with those who can better explain God’s wonderful plan of salvation? It is He who directs their steps (Proverbs 20:24). Maybe one day they will be able to look back on that left turn they made in Manhattan as one step along the way to them becoming part of the family of God (1 Corinthians 3:6).

Andrew Fehr is pastor of Gospel Mission (MB) Church in Carrot River, Sask.

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Last modified May 3, 2001.

© 2001 Mennonite Brethren Herald.
Published by the Canadian Conference of MB Churches.
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