When I lived in Oxford, England, I drove down to what might have been the poorest and most squalid coal mining village in Wales to preach each night for a week in a tiny chapel. Each day I'd go house to house and ask the dwellers, "Does Jesus live here?" If he didn't, I'd try to explain how He'd like to move in and transform their lives.
One afternoon I was knocking on doors and came to one which was ajar. When I knocked, it swung open. There in the shadows was a worn-out old man of 80 years with partially patched coal-dust saturated overalls. His off-white whiskers matched his mane of grizzly, grey hair which hung over his tired eyes blinking above a toothless smile. He knew me. He had hobbled around to the little chapel the night before. With lungs eaten out by a lifetime of inhaling coal dust, he squeaked, "Come in."
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With a big, rough shaky hand he shook mine and led me over to a creaky table, sitting me down on a wobbly bench beside it. Off to his right was a coal fire and hanging over it a black-coated chain suspending a soot covered kettle. Removing it, he poured its contents into two rusty tin cups of tea leaves. A shake of sugar and a splash of milk later, tea was served. With a dull knife, worn nearly in half, he hacked off a couple of pieces of bread from a nearly spent loaf, and squeezed chunks of cheese into them. It was the miners' staff of life. He wanted me to eat and drink with him, and I did. But when I asked him if Jesus lived here, he replied that He didn't. However, since the meeting of the night before, he'd thought of nothing else. His wife was dead and his children were long gone and hardly ever came to see him.
How could he invite Jesus into his life and know that he was His? I said, "Friend, just as when I knocked on your door, you asked me to come in and sit down and eat with you, so Jesus knocks on your heart's door, and when you invite Him to do so, He comes into your life and sups with you and shares life eternal with you." There and then he asked Jesus to come into his heart. When I left, there was the freshness of new spiritual life on his face. He had been well and truly born again.
Early the next morning, I felt the urge to go around and see my old friend again, and when I turned into his street, there was a slow, soupy rain falling. When I reached his grubby door, it was tightly shut. After knocking and hearing no movement, I looked through the window. The drape was drawn, but not quite all the way. Through the opening, I saw a plain pine coffin, the kind the British Government provides for those who can't buy their own. The lid was up and there was my friend, and on his face I thought I saw an expression of peace which read. "To live is Christ, to die is gain."
Reprinted by permission from What Does It Mean to Be Born Again? by John Wesley White, published and copyrighted 1977, Bethany House Publishers, Minneapolis, Minnesota, 55438.