Last Sunday the front doors facing Glenoaks stood open before our worship assembly.
I didn't expect much to come of it. I thought it would probably mean more to our members who usually come in the back door than to our neighbors walking or driving by outside. But as I looked out the doors, an older gentleman walked past, and when he saw that they were open, he stopped and stared.
And stared. It was a little weird, actually. I kept thinking he would keep walking. But he didn't. I went down the steps to say hello. I said, "I bet you've been walking past this building for years and never seen these doors open."
He said, "Armen, no English." I said, "Parev," which, if you get past my butchering of the Armenian language, means "hello."
He laughed and returned the greeting with the correct pronunciation. He tried to teach me "Good morning." Then he pointed to himself and said, "Yess;" he pointed to me and said, "Toun." Then he pointed to the church and said, "Toun chin?"
Are you?He genuflected, and again said he was Armenian, indicating he is a member of the Armenian Church. He gestured for something to write on. When I returned with paper, he filled it with the numbers 1-9, the Armenian alphabet, and his name in Armenian characters. His name is Degron. I thanked him and we attempted to exchange names. I expect my conversation with Degron will continue. I'm sure I'll see him again, and I hope to have a few new words by then.
We each have something to offer others. But if our doors are closed, those chance encounters never get a shot at becoming conversations. And though they may start slowly with a language barrier, when we open the doors to the outside -- to the "other" -- we find that we each have an alphabet, each have a name, each have something to share. It may take a little extra work, but boy is it worth it.
Degron gave me a boost last Sunday. I went into church feeling alive, that I am -- we are -- part of not only our own church community, but of something larger. And it's all because we opened the doors.