I write this as I wait in the sitting room of Founder's Hall at Athens
State College. I've been called here by my job description to submit
a construction bid. I'm an hour early; enough time to exercise my
mind and reflect on the day. Though this is not my own alma mater,
the hallowed halls of this old institution paint a a familiar enough picture
for reminiscing. The academic excitement sends my mind reeling with
memories of my own college days, of tests and deadlines, requirements and
expectations, stress, last-second cram sessions. But above all, the
sweetest pictures of old friends burst in my head prompting a smile and
a twinge of nostalgia. In fact, I've already bumped into an old friend
still struggling to conquer the college beast. We talked briefly,
stumbling through casual conversation about spouses and the like.
"How's yours?" "Just fine, thanks. And yours?" "Fine."
That was about the extent of it.
My mind drifts to other friends who have passed through these doors in
search of academic excellence. I remember the face of one of my oldest
and dearest friends who was once a student here. I fancy the idea
of seeing him walk through the door greeting me with the old secret brother
handshake.
We'd sit on the couch by the antique Gildemeester and Kroeger baby grand
and enjoy the quiet atmosphere. He'd flash a smile worth a thousand
pictures and say, "How ya been, man?" I'd stretch to put my arm around
his six feet three inch frame and reply, "I've been good, but I'm afraid
you've seen your better days." We'd laugh for days and take innocent
crack shots at each other, and gradually forget the world around us as
we spoke the language of cherished friendships.
We'd ponder the days we walked the halls of New Hope High School way back
when. I'd ask about his family. He'd ask about mine. He'd prop
his long basketball legs on the coffee table and recline with a sigh.
I'd do the same, and we'd talk until exhaustion had taken our breaths.
And as sad as it may seem, I realize that there may be passerbys looking
on, staring blankly and wondering how and why two people so clearly different
could stand to be so close. My friend is black. I am white.
But, in spite of it all, we'd continue to share in the bond, and enjoy
the precious gift of God that negates physical appearance and blatant disparity.
I call that gift "blind love."
I'll never cease to be amazed at the ignorance of some in our society.
How one man can look at another and conjure malice in his heart based on
an outward appearance. How one man can look at another and erroneously
think, "So that I can feel better about myself, I must assert myself as
better than he is." Black. White. Rich. Poor.
Strong. Weak.
I picture my precious Savior on the cross of Calvary, pierced and bleeding
for a man like me so racked with sin and worldly filth. His nail-driven
arms stretched tightly to a tree while He cries out in pain for me.
His bleeding side draining His life's blood so that I may overcome where
the world has placed me. The blind love of God's only Son poured
out for all who reach out in desperation. All. Black.
White. Rich. Poor. Strong. Weak.
When I come to grips with the idea of the perfect dying for the imperfect,
I can never look upon another and consider myself better. Oh God,
ever grant me that blind love.
What I wouldn't give to see my old friend walk through that door.
But I know he never will. My dear friend, Daniel Sullivan, died last
year at the age of 24. An old and dearest friendship silenced by
a failed heart.
I remember speaking at his funeral about a love that transcends all racial,
social and economic boundaries. Blind love. That's what we
shared. But, that's not a new concept. It was instilled by
our Master long ago at the pinnacle of all history. Blind love flowing
freely from the scarred, bleeding, battered body of the Son of God.
I thank God for the blind love of my friend Daniel. I thank God for
the blind love of my precious Savior. They both loved me in spite
of myself.