St. John’s United Church

Even the very hairs of your head are counted.
So don’t be afraid! You are worth more than many sparrows. (Matthew 10:31)

Barry’s grandmother, Claire, loved to feed the birds. In fact, she made it a practice each day to count the birds, each one, each species. She had a notebook in which she kept the daily tally. She worried about the birds if their numbers dropped. And, if their numbers increased, she increased the birdseed. A Counting God - that’s what came to me as I gave Matthew 10:29ff a fresh reading this week. God counts sparrows and God counts hairs. And for me, that means that each individual person is of value and importance to God - that no one, however lost or abandoned he/she may be/feel - goes unnoticed by God. That also seems to be the message in the Genesis reading today about Hagar and Ishmael.

Ishmael is the son of Hagar and Abraham. Hagar is Sarah’s slave obtained from the Pharaoh during their brief sojourn there. Jewish tradition says that Hagar was very beautiful: tall, elegant with the broad shoulders and the narrow hips typical of Egyptian women. Abraham’s wife, Sarah, decided that, since she was barren, Abraham should take Hagar so that he could have children. Abraham agreed and Hagar became pregnant with Ishmael. At first, everything was fine, but, as time went on, Sarah became jealous of Hagar. She thought Hagar was a bit too cocky, and so, she complained to Abraham. Being a smart man, Abraham stayed out of this catfight and told Sarah to do whatev er she wished with Hagar. So, Sarah made life as miserable as she could for Hagar - so much so that Hagar fled to the desert. In the desert, God came to Hagar and told her to return, promising that God would bless her son, Ishmael, and make of him a great nation. Hagar returned and for thirteen years Sarah watched as Hagar raised Ishmael. For thirteen years, she watched her husband enjoy and revel in Ishmael as his son. The furore and rage continued to boil. But no matter how miserable Sarah tried to make Hagar’s life, she couldn’t get beyond the fact that Hagar had born Abraham a son and that she had not. Can we imagine how that fact affected Sarah? Can we comprehend her sense of worthlessness? Can we see how she would have taken that out upon Hagar in as vindictive a manner as possible?

Then, the miraculous happened - Sarah became pregnant. At last, God had vindicated her! When Isaac was born, Sarah names him “Isaac” because her anger is replaced by laughter. No more would she have to endure those snide looks from Hagar over her barrenness. However, as we engage this story today, we can see that all is not well in paradise. Isaac is about three, and Sarah’s anger has returned as she observes Ishmael, who, by now, is about 16 years old, playing with Isaac. She begins to fear that Isaac and Ishmael might become rivals or, even worse, that Isaac might lose out on his birthright According to the story, Ishmael laughs at Isaac in a condescending manner and Sarah cannot stand it! She will not put up with this child of the slave girl being equal to her beloved Isaac, much less him mocking him. And so, much to the dismay of Abraham, Sarah demands that Abraham send Hagar and Ishmael away. And he does.

With tears in his eyes, Abraham sends Hagar and Ishmael are sent into the wilderness of the desert, with a skin of water and a loaf of bread. There, facing death from dehydration and starvation, Hagar places Ishmael under a bush because she cannot stand to watch him die. Again, God appears. Instead of abandoning them, God leads Hagar to a well of water and mother and son are both saved. Time passes and Ishmael becomes an expert hunter and a skilled marksman with a bow. When he is older, Hagar travels to Egypt and finds an Egyptian wife for her son. Eventually, Ishmael has twelve sons who later divide into twelve tribes - and yes, a great nation was born. For Ishmael’s descendents are the Muslims - one of the largest religious and ethnic groups on the face of the earth. The modern day Palestinians and many Arabs trace their lineage back to Ishmael. God did indeed fulfil the covenant with Hagar and Ishmael just as God did with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

At first glance, it would appear that Hagar and Ishmael were losers - they were not the chosen. However, God did not abandon them nor cast them away. Instead, God blessed them! The good news of the scriptures is that God looks upon the last, and the least, and the lost as the ones who are most in need of God’s blessing. Jesus did the same thing. Jesus looked at the religious establishment of his day - at the power brokers of the Pharisees and Sadducees - and said that he was sent to the lost sheep of Israel. Jesus spent most of his time with the peasants – with the poor and the homeless and the hurting. These were the ones to whom Jesus promised the kingdom of God - the meek and humble of heart, the powerless and the oppressed who lived from hand to mouth and had little or no choice in life – the losers of his day. According to the Bible we are all losers: “All have sinned and come short of the glory of God.” All of us fail at one time or another. So, if we are all losers are there any winners?

Well, let me share a revelation from the golf course to help us understand losing and winning. Golf is a very unforgiving game when played according to the rules. You have to play every shot as it is found - even your “foul balls.” Further, in a tournament you play the course - not each other. You can play the best that it is possible for you to play but still fail to win because someone else played one shot better. Unlike team sports where you can play badly and the team still wins, in golf you are on your own - you can play well and still lose. When professional golfer, Jay Haas, was asked about this and how he handled it from a psychological perspective, he said that this was the toughest part of professional golf and that one had to set different standards for success. Success comes not in winning every week, but in doing your best with what happens that week. If you play your best and someone else plays better - you accept it and go on. Another professional put it this way: “You must focus on the process and not the results.” In other words: play your game, hit every shot as well as you can, and “let the chips fall where they may.”

That’s what Bill Porter did. Bill’s story is haunting. Bill is a salesman. Each day for years, Bill would put his infirmities aside, screw up his courage, go out into the world and ask others to accept what he had to offer. So do we all. But, Bill does it with a style and grace that is inspiring. When you first meet Bill, you may see only a disabled man. But, when you look inside, you will come to see a man of strength - a man who does not fear the One who could destroy both soul and body…, a man who knows that he is worth more than many sparrows. For what Bill can do that many of us can’t, is come to terms with his own world. He is one among us who has found the thing we should all share in this life - peace, satisfaction and contentment. Bill’s gift is to be himself. Here is his story.

The alarm rings and he stirs. It’s 5:45 a.m. He could linger there under the covers, listening to the radio as the weather forecasts the usual Oregon rain. People would understand if he stayed in bed and he knows that. A surgeon’s knife has left a crimson scar across his lower back. The medicines and painkillers litter his nightstand and offer help, but no cure. The fingers on his right hand are so twisted that he can’t tie his shoes. Some days, he feels like surrendering. But the challenge given him by his dying mother reverberates in his soul. So, too, do the voices of those who called him stupid or retarded, incapable of being more than a ward of the state. All his life he’s struggled to prove them wrong. He will not quit. And so Bill Porter rises. He takes his first unsteady steps on a journey that will take him onto Portland’s streets - the battlefield where he fights alone for his independence and dignity. He’s a door-to-door salesman. Sixty-three-years old. And his enemies - a crippled body that betrays him and a changing world that no longer needs him - are gaining on him. With trembling hands, he assembles his weapons - black wingtips, dark slacks, blue shirt and matching blazer, brown tie, tan raincoat and pinched-front, brown fedora. “Image,” he believes, “is everything.”

Bill stops in the entryway, picks up his briefcase and steps out onto the stoop of his Northeast Portland home. The weatherman was right - a fall wind has kicked up. Bill pulls his raincoat tighter. He tilts his hat just so. On the 7:45 a.m. bus that stops across the street, he leaves his briefcase next to the driver and finds a seat in the middle of a pack of bored teenagers. He leans forward, stares toward the driver, sits back, then repeats the process. His nervousness makes him laugh uncontrollably. The teen-agers smirk. They don’t realize that Bill is afraid that someone will steal his briefcase with the glasses, brochures, order forms and clip-on tie that he needs to survive. Porter senses the stares. He covers his mouth, stifles a laugh and regains his composure. He looks at a boy next to him and smiles. The kid turns away and makes a face at a buddy. Bill looks at the floor. His face reveals nothing. In his heart, though, he knows he should have been like these kids, like everyone on this bus. He’s not angry. But he knows. His mother explained how the delivery had been difficult, how the doctor had used an instrument that crushed a section of his brain and caused cerebral palsy, a disorder of the nervous system that affected his speech, hands and walk.

Bill came to Portland when he was 13 after his father, a salesman for a neon sign company, was transferred here. He attended a school for the disabled and then a regular High School, where he was placed in a class for slow kids. But he wasn’t slow. His mind was trapped in a body that didn’t work. Speaking was laborious, as if words had to be pulled from a tar pit. People were impatient and didn’t listen. He felt different - was different - from the kids who roughhoused in the halls and planned dances he would never attend. Back then, people like him were considered retarded and without a future. But Bill wanted to do something. And so, he asked the State Vocational Rehabilitation Division for help. They sent him to several social service agencies, but it did no good. He couldn’t use a cash register, unload trucks or solicit funds on the telephone. “Unemployable” is what they called him. He should collect government disability checks for the rest of his life. His mother was certain, though, that he could rise above his limitations. She helped start a workshop for people with cerebral palsy, and Bill sold redwood planters to raise money for it.

People listened. With his mother’s encouragement, he applied for a job with the Fuller Brush Company, only to be turned down because he couldn’t carry a product briefcase or walk a route. But Bill desperately wanted to become a salesman. And so, he began reading “Help Wanted” ads in the newspaper. When he saw one for Watkins, a company that sold household products door-to-door, his mother set up a meeting with a representative. The man said, “No,” but Bill wouldn’t listen. He just wanted a chance. Finally, the man relented and offered him a section of the city that no salesman wanted.

It took Bill four false starts before he found the courage to ring the first doorbell. The man who answered told him to “go away,” a pattern repeated throughout the day. That night, Bill read through the company literature and discovered that the products were guaranteed. He decided that he would sell that pledge. He just needed people to listen. And they did. If a customer turned him down, Bill kept coming back until they heard him. When apartment managers refused to admit him, he waited until someone else was buzzed inside and then walked in behind them. And he sold. He was rewarded with the Laurelhurst sales route in Northeast Portland. His parents made deliveries because he couldn’t drive. He prospected the area for 13 years before concentrating solely on Portland’s westside, a bigger market. For several years he was Watkins’ top retail salesman in all of Oregon, Idaho, Washington and California. Today, he is the only one of the company’s 44,000 salespeople who sells door-to-door.

Let’s follow him on his route. The bus stops in the Transit Mall, and Bill shuffles off. His body is not made for walking. Each step strains his joints. Migraines and other aches are constant visitors. His right arm is nearly useless. He can’t fully control the limb, and it’s pressed close to his body and thrust backward as if he’s pushing off with a ski pole. His torso tilts at the waist; he seems to be heading into a strong, steady wind that keeps him off balance. At times, he looks like a toddler taking his first steps. He walks 10 miles a day. His first stop today, like every day, is a shoeshine stand where employees tie his laces. Twice a week, he pays for a shine. At a nearby hotel, one of the doormen buttons Bill’s top shirt button and slips on his clip-on tie. He then walks to another bus that drops him off a mile from his territory. He’s been up for nearly five hours. He left home nearly three hours ago.

The wind is cold and raindrops fall, but Bill ignores the elements and the sluggishness in his thighs. He trudges up one hill and down another until he reaches the edge of the neighbourhood. He stops at the first house. This is the moment he’s been preparing for since 5:45 a.m. He rings the bell. A woman comes to the door. “Hello.” “No, thank you, I’m just preparing to leave.” Bill nods. “May I come back later?” he asks? “No,” says the woman as she shuts the door. Bill’s eyes reveal nothing. He moves to the next house. The door opens. Then closes. He doesn’t get a chance to speak. His expression never changes. He stops at every home in his territory. People might not buy now. Next time. Maybe. He’s learned that “No” doesn’t mean “never. “Some of his best customers are people who repeatedly turned him down before buying.

Bill stops again. “No, I’m babysitting for friends, and I have three toddlers in here. I can’t talk now.” The door shuts. He makes his way down the street. “I don’t want to try it.” “Maybe next time.”

“I’m sorry. I’m on the phone right now.” “No.” He makes his way up and down the hills. His briefcase is heavy. He stops and shifts it to his bad hand, forcing the handle between his fingers. He walks 15 feet and stops. His hand hurts. He catches his breath. He walks on. Ninety minutes later, Bill still has not made a sale. But there is always another home. He walks on and knocks on a door. A woman wanders out from the back yard where she’s gardening. She often buys, but, “Not today,” she says, as she walks away. “Are you sure?” Bill asks. She pauses, “Well…” That’s all he needs. Bill walks as fast as he can, tailing her as she heads to the back yard. He sets his briefcase on a bench and opens it. He puts on his glasses, removes his brochures and begins his spiel, showing the woman pictures and describing each product. Spices? “No.” Vanilla? “No.” Pasta toppings? “No.” Jams?” “No.” Potpourri? “No. Maybe nothing today, Bill.” Now, Bill’s hearing is the one perfect thing his body does - when he gets a live one. Then, the word “No” doesn’t register. Cinnamon? “No.” Pepper? “No.” Laundry soap? “Hmm.” Bill stops. He’s a shark smelling blood. He quickly remembers her last order. “Say, aren’t you nearly out of soap? That’s what you bought last time. You ought to be out right about now.” “You’re right, Bill. I’ll take one.” Because he has difficulties holding a pen, Bill asks his customers to complete their order forms. The woman writes him a cheque, which he deposits in his briefcase. Then, he is on his way.

Bill arrives home, in a rainstorm, after 7 p.m. Today was not profitable. He tells himself not to worry - four days left in the week. At least he’s off his feet and home. He and his parents moved here more than 30 years ago. They’re both gone now, and not a day goes by that he doesn’t silently thank them. After his father died, his mother lived off a small pension with help from Bill’s income. When she passed away eight years ago, she left only the house and a voice that he still hears. Inside, an era is preserved. The telephone is a heavy, rotary model. There is no VCR, no cable. His is the only house in the neighbourhood with a television antenna on the roof. He leads a solitary life. He’s met a couple of women over the years, but nothing serious developed. Most of his human contact comes on the job. Alone, he does paperwork, reads and watches television, especially sporting events. Now, he heats the oven and slips in a frozen dinner, a staple because they’re easy to fix. As his food warms, he opens his briefcase and stacks the order forms. In two weeks, he will use a manual typewriter to write detailed directions to each house so the women he hires to make deliveries won’t get cost. He can use only one finger and one hand to type. The job usually takes him 10 hours. He’s a weary man who knows his days - no matter what his intentions – are numbered. He peddles his goods in downpours, snowstorms and sweltering heat. He does not know how much longer his body can take the pounding. In quieter moments, he wonders if the day is fast approaching when the world will no longer answer his knock at the door. At many homes, the woman of the house is off working. And if someone is there, they buy in bulk at superstores. They’d rather save a dollar than deal with a stranger who talks about money-back guarantees. He works on straight commission. He gets no paid holidays, vacations or raises. Yes, some months are lean. In 1993, he needed back surgery to relieve pain caused from decades of walking. He was laid up for five months and couldn’t work. He was forced to take a loan on his house to eat, consolidate past debt and pay three years of back property taxes. When he returned to the street, business was slow. He fell further behind. Eventually, he sold his home, cleared the books and started over. The new owners, familiar with his situation, froze his rent and agreed to let him live there until he dies. He doesn’t feel sorry for himself. The house is only a building - a place to live, nothing more.

His dinner is ready. He eats at the kitchen table and listens to the radio. The afternoon mail brought bills that he will deal with later this week. The cheque book is upstairs in the bedroom - his cheque book. He pays a gardener. He pays his medical insurance. He pays a woman to shop for him, clean his house, do his laundry and make his lunch when he knows his daily route will take him far from a fast food restaurant. He types in the recipient’s name and signs his name. The signature is small and scrawled. Unreadable. But he knows. “Bill Porter, salesman.” From his easy chair he hears the wind lash his house and the rain pound the street outside his home. He must dress warmly tomorrow. He’s sleepy. With great care he climbs the stairs to his bedroom. In time, the lights go off. Morning will be here soon.

To many, Bill may seem like a loser. But I think not. Some of us may feel like losers, too. But I have good news for you: “God is in the business of using losers!” Ted Turner, media mogul, once said “Christianity is a religion for losers.” And he was right. This is a religion for losers - for, if the standard is perfection, then we all are losers. In fact, by the world’s standards, Jesus was a loser. For when you find yourself crucified by the powers that be, it’s hard to call yourself a winner. But God stepped in - and the rest, as they say, is history. For the resurrection was God’s sign that our notions of winning and losing are all messed up. The Apostle Paul put it this way: “While we were yet sinners Christ died for us.” Or, in the language of today, “While we were yet losers, Christ died for us.” God makes winners out of losers in the only game that counts - the game of eternal life. For God always has the final word – a Word made flesh that tells us that just as God cares for the little birds and knows the number of hairs on our heads, God values each and every one of us and counts us as winners! So don’t be afraid! YOU are worth more than many sparrows.” Thanks be to God! Amen.

Acknowledgements: Bob Ferguson, Bass Mitchell, Fred Kane

A meditation preached by the Rev. Myra Garvin at St. John’s United Church, Brockville
Sunday June 23, 2002 – Pentecost 5A