Post by metalikhan on Nov 16, 2008 23:43:53 GMT -5
As Christians, we've all experienced those moments of epiphany that change us, the most important being our moment of accepting Christ as Lord and Savior. Sometimes, these defining moments come in a cluster — in a season — or are linked to a particular place, such as a job or a place we lived.
I won't detail every defining event in my life (do I hear a hurricane of relieved sighs?); but the subject of swearing coworkers prompted me to review one defining place. The things I experienced there profoundly altered my perception of what it means to be God's ambassadors, to be salt and light for this world.
The first place I worked in machining and electronics had extremely high standards for both quality of work as well as personal requirements for the employees. The machining ranged from micromachining to working metal products so large it took up to 24 hours for a single cut; the electronics included hybrid microcircuits, complex boards, and robotics.
The second place was barely in the 20th century. It closed shortly before reaching the 21st, not because it was failing but because an investment group bought the deciding 51% of the company and sent the main contract work (for a well known heavy equipment company) overseas. The building consisted of three concrete & metal bays linked. What little insulation there was proved irrelevant because the loading doors opened the entire end of each bay. In summer, the temperature inside reached as high as 115; in winter, it wasn't unusual to find frost on machines when first arriving at work. Some of the shelving was coated with inch thick tar pits trapping broken glass, metal chips, lost tools, and dead mice and birds. Much of the machining was on cast iron which is dirty metal; even a thoroughly cleaned surface will have a coating of greasy black dust within 24 hours.
Many of the people who worked there were an odd mix of rednecks, bikers, inner city ruffians, alcoholics of every age, and occasionally work-release prisoners. A little over a third of the employees were experienced machinists from other company lay-offs (such as car manufacturing); they were the stable core that kept this company viable. There were a few Christians but they were as much a minority there as the college grads.
I discovered there are people who cannot communicate without swearing. When some of them came to the tool crib for "one of them twisty ____", it didn't matter how often I told them the names for the tools (drill bit, step drill, end mill, etc.); ultimately, the main questions I had to ask were what size and how many sharp edges did they need on the twisty ___. And before anyone says, Aw, that was just a put-on, I need to add that most of these same guys couldn't add or subtract 1 or 10 or any other number without a calculator (for the tolerances). Three of them didn't know the difference between the triangle carbide inserts and the diamond shaped ones even when they held one of each in their hands. See, this one has three sides — one, two, three — and this one has four sides — one, two, three, four — remember to count the sides. Many of them had difficulty reading and little vocabulary (other than obscenities) beyond second grade. No, dear, frugal doesn't mean fruity.
The respect I received was not because of swearing. They learned I would not back down or flinch from their most outrageous comments, questions, or antics. I know two came to Christ, but not because of any active witnessing I did. When they worked up the nerve to tell me about something they did and why, I did not respond with a diatribe about legality or sin; I became teary and told them I was sorry for their sake. I later heard about their conversion from their buddies who still worked there and who said neither man received from even their own mothers the bit of compassion I showed.
Another man brought me a cigar one day. He was celebrating one year of sobriety, a decision he made because of some smart aleck comment I spouted the previous year about parents being a kid's best teacher of how to be a drunk. I didn't belittle his accomplishment by refusing the cigar. I lit up; and at least I could say it was the smoke that made my eyes water. Maybe he believed me.
One young man particularly haunts me because I bungled the opportunity to witness so badly. He asked me one day if I would consider being his mentor then revealed that he was wiccan. I told him I was flattered but could not because I am a Christian. He looked as me as though I'd just clubbed him with the dead blow hammer I held. After an incredibly long moment, he said I was the first Christian he'd known who didn't stand on the Bible to look down on him. So we stared at each other, mutually stunned, and all I could think of to tell him was that's not what a relationship with God is about. I still pray for him. I can't help but wonder what God might ask me to answer for, not only missed or bungled opportunities; I think of how I was early in my Christian walk and wonder if I was like the church people who caused this young man to reject Christianity.
Lest anyone think the place was unrelievedly grim, I have to add that keeping a sense of humor was vital there. Machining lingo lends itself well to the double entendre; and the smarter ones among those employees knew it. They were often the ones who tested me most because I was such a novelty (of four other women hired during my time there, one stayed three months, two didn't make it past a week, and one didn't come back after the first day). In one case, all I did was innocently (?) remind a group of young men (who thought I'd overheard their conversation) of three basic machining principles and let their imaginations do the rest; they turned more shades of red than I have in my watercolor paints.
I think I mentioned that one of the inspectors told me I reminded him of Mother Theresa, Red Skelton, and Attila the Hun. Another Christian, he was also the one who handed me a ceramic insert (which can remain sharp and withstand more heat than carbide when cutting metal) and invited me to reflect on the different kinds of clay the Potter uses for His purposes and how He shapes the clay. He didn't elaborate so I don't know if I reached any conclusion similar to his. I've taken art classes in ceramics and I do know clay goes through some brutal preparation before it's shaped by hand or thrown on a wheel. It is kneaded, pounded, cut through with wire to remove air bubbles that might cause it to crack or shatter when it's fired in the kiln.
When I've shared any of this in the past, the response I usually get from the well-dressed upscale members of the congregation is a polite smile and the assurance that God delivered me so I could be around clean, nice people. It makes me wonder how much of our culture's cancers invaded the church. I also wonder if the rudeness and arrogance these people reveal outside of church is so very different from the obscenities uttered by the men at that machining company.
These are just a few of the things that turned this particular job into a defining season, a defining place. It changed my writing, the balance of the serious with the humorous, the characters I choose, the texture of the themes. It altered how I view my place in the church, what things I pray about, and what opportunities to be salt and light that I watch for on a daily basis.
