I want to be in a club—you know, like bikers are. I happened to be behind a guy on a Harley for about ten miles on a sunny day; we must have passed a dozen other bikers, and each one of them dropped their hand in the traditional biker greeting, which, according to one article I read, is the “universal gesture of friendship and camaraderie.”
Maybe I should start waving to all the other slightly dinged-up Stratus drivers. It would be a nice way to say, “Yep. My teenaged son drove into the garage door too.”
Except that I want my club to be bigger than that.
Christians are in a sort of a club.
We hear gospel music playing at our doctor’s office or a restaurant, and we perk up.
Oooh! They’re Christians! We meet a new neighbor and feel suddenly comfortable when they mention their church. We see a Christian book in someone’s hand, or a Jesus calendar on their desk, and we know we’re in good company.
I’m always thankful for the sense of belonging I have in this group, connected as we are by our love for Jesus.
Except that I want my club to be even bigger than that. I want to be part of the human race club.
I want to walk by a smelly, toothless, homeless woman and feel a bond with her because she too is made in the image of God.
I want to feel a thrill of joy when I bump into a purple-headed punk rocker at the mall. Oooh! Another human!
I want to extend goodwill toward the woman at church who hurt my feelings, toward my ex-husband and his wife, toward the kid who covered my driveway with offensive graffiti.
I want to welcome a Middle-Eastern Muslim couple into my home, visit a West African family in their village hut, worship with a Korean sister at my church.
I want to give the universal gesture of friendship and camaraderie to every single person I meet, knowing they too are someone for whom Christ died.