Night Encounter

While deep within my walk, moving casually, I noticed someone in the distance, tiny, swallowed by the long receding avenue, walking in my direction. Making note of it in my thoughts, I continued my journey, moving slowly towards home.

For some reason, I often peer down to the ground when I walk; perhaps it has something to do with my tendency towards reflection. The dark street was speckled with whiteness, the delicate bones of seashells crushed with the stone to make the road. Flecks of mica could also be seen in the mixture, glinting under the glow of the streetlight. "Hi," said a woman, striding towards me, stretching out her hand, introducing herself, "what's your name?" I was slightly startled and unsure of what to do. "Scott," I said after hesitating for a moment, shaking her hand. Sensing my unease, she said, "don't worry, I won't bite. I saw you standing there for a long time." Looking down, then looking away, finally turning to examine her directly, I realized quickly that she was probably a prostitute. "I'm drunk," she said, in the manner of a partygoer affirming to another conformity to the festivities. "I have a bottle at home," she added, suggesting implicitly that I join her. Beneath the jovial demeanor, her eyes, in the pale luminosity of the streetlight, looked sad and worn, revealing that she had walked many miles, many, many miles. I recognized myself there. We talked for a little while, and then she tried to be a little more direct; "Is there something I can do for you?" "No," was my response, and then I revealed to her that I was a youth minister. Her happy mask dissipated into the darkness and her face now revealed something of the deep sadness her eyes had hinted at. Guilt was there as well. "I love Jesus," she said at one point. We talked some more and I tried, poorly, I might add, to witness to her. In so many words, some graphic, she began informing me that the twelve disciples were failures, that they had all made major mistakes, committed colossal sins. I agreed with her. She emphasized this point and it seemed like she was, to some degree, recognizing her situation while offering a kind of justification for her life. There was something in her expression that sounded like someone who dismisses the seriousness of sin by saying "well, we all make mistakes." There was also, I think, a measure of hope in her statement, hope that she to could one day become a disciple of Christ.

We were talking in the middle of the street, near a four-way intersection and, eventually, a vehicle needed to pass, a pick-up truck blazing its lights, moving slowly between us. I thought we were going to return to the center line and continue our discussion, but after being separated by the truck, she began to walk away, turning to look back at me. "God bless you," I said, not knowing what to say. She, with that bereft, sorrowful look in her eyes, just turned away without a parting word, walking down the sidewalk, moving off into the unforgiving night.

Later, I thought about the encounter, wondering about it. I thought about the prostitutes in Scripture, some—if not all—of whom were saved. Perhaps God used my words to sow a seed in her soul. I could see the possibility of great beauty brimming out from within her. She was precious; she really was, a person made in the image of God. She didn't represent some fringe form of humanity, some gross perversion of the norm; she is, in a sense, us, only we are redeemed. We were all, (and to some extent still are) at the very least, spiritual prostitutes, though soon to be fully transformed—by the grace of God—into the pure, spotless bride of Christ. Understanding this yields empathy, a natural check to the poison of pride. In life, including evangelism, I think it is necessary to empathize with others, including murderers and prostitutes, because that really is where we've been, and is, to some degree, where we still are. This is just reality. The most cursory examination of our thoughts, motivations and actions reveals it. Having said that, we should also, lest we become disheartened over our battle with indwelling sin, remind ourselves and other believers often, that we are—by the sovereign grace of God—indeed, saints.