The Evening Visitors
- By FireDragon76
- Whosoever Will, May Come - Liberal
- 1 Replies
The Evening Visitors
Jacob locked his office door behind him and stepped into the chill of an early spring evening. The church parking lot was nearly empty, save for a few latecomers, but something restless had pulled him away from the quiet safety of his home.
He was used to order—the steady cadence of sermons shaped by a faith handed down through generations, rooted in tradition and the clear lines it drew around right and wrong. His congregation reflected this well: families who valued hard work, respect for authority, and a skepticism of anything too new or uncertain. Jacob himself wore those values like a well-fitted coat, familiar and reassuring.
But tonight, the weight of unspoken questions pressed on him, heavier than the Sunday Bible study debates or the polite discussions over coffee. He found himself walking without direction, his footsteps carrying him to the edge of town, near an old industrial park where streetlights flickered uncertainly.
There, by a fire burning in a rusty barrel, stood three people.
One was a woman in a simple clerical collar, her expression open but unreadable. Another was an older man, shoulders stooped, eyes distant but attentive. Between them, a quiet figure watched the flames, his hands clasped, silent but steady.
Jacob stopped a few feet away, unsettled by their presence but drawn nonetheless. Hospitality was part of his upbringing—welcoming strangers, offering what little warmth the night could afford. But something about this moment felt different.
The woman’s voice broke the silence first. “The Kingdom of God isn’t what most expect. It isn’t about comfort or certainty, but about upheaval—turning tables and crossing boundaries.”
Jacob nodded slowly, feeling the familiar urge to argue, to explain, to reclaim the narrative. But the older man’s next words stopped him.
“Power is not the currency of grace. I once thought strength meant holding fast to what I knew—now I see it means letting go.”
The quiet man finally spoke, his voice low but sure. “Faith is dangerous. It asks us to risk more than social acceptance or political certainty. It asks us to stand with the forgotten, the outcast, the inconvenient.”
Jacob’s throat tightened. He thought of his sermons—carefully framed messages that comforted, rallied, and reassured. Here was a challenge he had never dared voice aloud. The kind of discipleship that didn’t fit neat categories, that unsettled the foundations of his world.
As the rain began to fall, soft and persistent, Jacob glanced back toward the church steeple rising against the darkening sky. He thought of the story he’d heard as a child—the one where Abraham rose quickly to welcome three strangers under the oaks of Mamre, hospitality leading to promise and change.
In that moment, Jacob understood: the Kingdom was not a place of certainty or ease, but a calling into the wild unknown. And like Abraham, he was being asked to open his door—not to what was comfortable or familiar, but to what might unsettle and transform.
He took a deep breath and moved closer to the fire, letting the warmth wash over him as the rain whispered around them.
Jacob locked his office door behind him and stepped into the chill of an early spring evening. The church parking lot was nearly empty, save for a few latecomers, but something restless had pulled him away from the quiet safety of his home.
He was used to order—the steady cadence of sermons shaped by a faith handed down through generations, rooted in tradition and the clear lines it drew around right and wrong. His congregation reflected this well: families who valued hard work, respect for authority, and a skepticism of anything too new or uncertain. Jacob himself wore those values like a well-fitted coat, familiar and reassuring.
But tonight, the weight of unspoken questions pressed on him, heavier than the Sunday Bible study debates or the polite discussions over coffee. He found himself walking without direction, his footsteps carrying him to the edge of town, near an old industrial park where streetlights flickered uncertainly.
There, by a fire burning in a rusty barrel, stood three people.
One was a woman in a simple clerical collar, her expression open but unreadable. Another was an older man, shoulders stooped, eyes distant but attentive. Between them, a quiet figure watched the flames, his hands clasped, silent but steady.
Jacob stopped a few feet away, unsettled by their presence but drawn nonetheless. Hospitality was part of his upbringing—welcoming strangers, offering what little warmth the night could afford. But something about this moment felt different.
The woman’s voice broke the silence first. “The Kingdom of God isn’t what most expect. It isn’t about comfort or certainty, but about upheaval—turning tables and crossing boundaries.”
Jacob nodded slowly, feeling the familiar urge to argue, to explain, to reclaim the narrative. But the older man’s next words stopped him.
“Power is not the currency of grace. I once thought strength meant holding fast to what I knew—now I see it means letting go.”
The quiet man finally spoke, his voice low but sure. “Faith is dangerous. It asks us to risk more than social acceptance or political certainty. It asks us to stand with the forgotten, the outcast, the inconvenient.”
Jacob’s throat tightened. He thought of his sermons—carefully framed messages that comforted, rallied, and reassured. Here was a challenge he had never dared voice aloud. The kind of discipleship that didn’t fit neat categories, that unsettled the foundations of his world.
As the rain began to fall, soft and persistent, Jacob glanced back toward the church steeple rising against the darkening sky. He thought of the story he’d heard as a child—the one where Abraham rose quickly to welcome three strangers under the oaks of Mamre, hospitality leading to promise and change.
In that moment, Jacob understood: the Kingdom was not a place of certainty or ease, but a calling into the wild unknown. And like Abraham, he was being asked to open his door—not to what was comfortable or familiar, but to what might unsettle and transform.
He took a deep breath and moved closer to the fire, letting the warmth wash over him as the rain whispered around them.