The Exchange
I’ll never forget that day. It was just a normal Saturday and I was on a roll, checking off items on the Honey-Do list. I was on pace to be done by noon when I saw the mail carrier drive by. He was a little early for a Saturday I thought but, maybe he also wanted to get done early, after all, mail carriers have lives too. In any case, I grabbed my keys, walked up the street, unlocked my mail box and there it was. A summons informing me that I would have to put on my best white shirt, the only white shirt I owned, and appear before the King of the Universe for a face to face meeting.
Now the idea of this meeting with the King was nothing new, at least not in my mind. I’d majored in history and I knew that almost every society since the beginning of time described this meeting in one form or another. The logistics of it however, varied from society to society.
It seemed that every religion agreed the key element of his meeting was the white shirt that a person wore when they went to it. The idea, common in most societies, was that a person was supposed to wear a white shirt and if the King approved of it they were good and if He didn’t, they were toast. At that point the agreement ended though because of a major problem with the shirt. It may have been pure white at some point in time but life happened and nobody’s white shirt was white anymore. The question was, how does a person get it clean again, clean enough so that the King would approve of it? Some people said as long as you washed it and you got the dirt out, even if it was stained, that was okay. Others said that as long it didn’t smell like your arm pit that the King would give it a thumbs up. Others however, said that you had to bleach it and then starch it until you couldn’t move in it, that that was the only way. My neighbor Joe said that if you took it to the cleaners and let the professionals clean it that that would get it done. Gladys, his wife, however, said that everyone got their shirt stained and that the King understood this. According to Gladys, “just show up like you are and you’ll be fine.” Personally, I think Gladys just hated laundry day. And then there was what was written in “The Book”. Ah yes, “The Book”, the ancient document, written over time. I hadn’t read it much but according to “The Book”, as close as I could tell, the shirt had to be as white as the day you got it. That always had struck me as being impossible to do but, to each his own I figured. In any case, regardless of the philosophy, when it came to the meeting with the King of the Universe everything depended on the shirt.
Now, although I knew that it could happen, honestly, receiving that summons in the mail that day caught me off guard. “Well, this is inconvenient!” I said aloud when I realized what it was. I had a ton of things to do. As I sauntered back to the house I began formulating a plan to defer this appointment. I remembered how I managed to weasel out of jury duty last year when, suddenly, I heard my name called. Startled, I looked up and saw, standing next to a taxi parked in front of my house, one of the biggest men I’d ever seen. The size of a gorilla, he looked like he belonged in the FBI. Black suit, white shirt, black tie…..shades. He had it all. Holding the back door open, he said. “Hop in. We gotta go.”
“Go where?” I demanded.
Pointing to the letter in my hand he replied, “To your summons. Your flight leaves in two hours. Move it. You’re gonna be late.”
“But I need to pack!”
“No you don’t. The King will provide what you need.”
“And just how will the King do that?” I protested. “He has a whole planet to manage so I think he has more important things to do than keep track of me and my stuff and besides, it’s my life and I’ll do as I please. I know what my needs are much better than He does.”
The big gorilla glared at me and I matched his stare. After a few seconds, our stalemate ended. “Twenty minutes.” He said tersely. “You have twenty minutes to pack one carryon bag and then I’m throwing your sorry butt and whatever else is in your carryon bag into this cab and we’re leaving.” And with that, uninvited, he followed me into the house.
As I shut the door, I glanced at him and said. “You know, for a guy who supposedly works for the King, you aren’t much of a gentleman. I’ve read somewhere that the King will never enter a house unless He’s invited. I don’t recall inviting you in.”
“Do I look like the King?”
Point taken. I grabbed a bag from the closet and frantically packed. And the big gorilla? Well, he was just standing against the wall doing his big gorilla thing. In stone cold silence he alternated between texting on his cell phone and shaking his head, giving me that look with each item I stuffed into my bag. At one point however, he did break the silence. “You really are your father’s son aren’t you?” He said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He packed the same kind of useless crap in his carry on bag too.”
“Jerk.” I mumbled as I subtly saluted him and continued to pack.
Ten minutes later, I was in the cab. As I buckled my seat belt, the big guy turned around and handed me an envelope. Upon opening it I found both my boarding pass and a tag for my carryon bag. Examining the tag it suddenly dawned on me that it was perfectly printed with all of my necessary contact information in the event that I lost it. I looked up. The big gorilla explained dryly. “He knew,” he said. “The King knew you’d uh,” he paused long enough to roll his eyes, “need this stuff.” And, muttering something else under his breath, he put the cab in reverse and pulled out of the driveway.
Ninety minutes later I was in the air, on my way to meet destiny. I managed to get a window seat and for some reason, the middle seat next to me was empty. The aisle seat however, was taken. During takeoff, the guy in the aisle seat and I had looked at each other, looked back at the empty seat, and smiled. More elbow room. That was, incidentally, the only interaction that he and I would have for the entire flight. He was kind of into his own world so this left me with lots of time to reflect. Taking mental inventory, it dawned on me just how unprepared for this whole thing I probably was. I had packed a carry on bag and it was heavy but I had no idea anymore what was in it or if it really mattered. Did I remember to pack a toothbrush or toothpaste? Deodorant? Underwear and socks? My cell charger? My cell phone? Did I forget my cell phone? I hoped not but I couldn’t find it at the moment. At least I had remembered to put on my white shirt. I hadn’t washed it since last Christmas but at least I’d remembered it. I glanced about the rest of the plane, locating the restrooms and the emergency exits. Something seemed to be a bit off although I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. In terms of nationalities and culture, age, gender, and vocations, there seemed to an equal representation of all socio-economic classes on this flight. That was a little unusual I supposed but that wasn’t it. Suddenly, it dawned on me what was different about this flight from every other flight I’d ever taken. We weren’t flying Southwest Airlines but there were no first class seats on this flight, just coach. Everyone, regardless of their lot in life, was flying coach. And me, I was in the middle of it, just me and my white shirt, which wasn’t so white any more. Turkey gravy and red wine stains were killers to get out.
Once we got in the air, time seemed to drag endlessly. There was nothing to do. Looking around, I observed that many of the other passengers appeared to be just as bored as I was but they seemed caught up in their own affairs and didn’t interact much with anyone else. For some unknown reason, there were no inflight movies either. I looked out the window and tried to imagine what the different shapes in the clouds were. That worked for maybe ten minutes. I shifted my gaze to the literature slot in the back of the seat in front of me. It was empty. The passenger before me took the literature with them when they disembarked. I shook my head. What kind of person takes the airplane literature with them when their plane lands? Wow! That person really needs to get a life. Of course what did that say about me? I was ready to dive into it like it was a New York Times’ best seller. I decided to let it go.
Ten minutes later, or maybe it was an eternity, I couldn’t tell, the flight attendants brought by the inflight snacks. Pretzels and a four ounce bottle of water. Breakfast of champions! Fortunately they did give me more than one and as I was ripping into my second bag, I suddenly realized something else about this flight. It was those white shirts again. Everybody on the flight was wearing one but like mine, nobody’s white shirt looked very white. Some people’s shirts were whiter than others but no one was wearing one that I would qualify as clean, in fact, some were down right filthy. And, as the air shifted, I realized that there was also this peculiar odor in the air. Sometimes it was less pungent, sometimes it was more, but it was never gone. It was always there. It was always……..there. I swore softly. Oh good Lord! It was me!
About this time I heard a snort and I forgot about my odor as I smelled a different aroma. My gaze followed my nose and I saw that the guy in the aisle seat had fallen into a deep sleep. Dead to the world he was. He was a snorer who liked garlic with the lung capacity of a bull moose. As he slept, he drooled ever so slightly.
After enduring this torture for about five minutes, I was contemplating self-medication. I was about ready to order a double shot of the strongest spirit of whatever they had from the inflight bar when I suddenly became aware of a man with a briefcase standing in the aisle. “Mind if I join you?” He asked, motioning to the empty seat with his left hand.
The first thing I noticed about his left hand was that it had a nasty scar. I glanced at his other hand, the one holding the brief case. Huh, he had matching scars. Now under ordinary circumstances I might have told him to take a hike but, I considered my options and decided he just might serve as a make shift wall to deflect the garlic smell. It was worth a shot. “Sure”, I replied. “As long as you aren’t selling insurance.”
He laughed. “No, I’m not selling insurance. But, since everyone on this flight received a summons, what I’m doing is talking to people and trying to see if there’s anything I can do help prepare them for their appointment with the King.”
“How did you know I was appearing before the King?”
“Son,” the man asked. “Why do you think the rest of the passengers are on this flight?”
“A lot of reasons I guess. Business, vacations, whatever.” I answered.
The man pointed to the other passengers sitting throughout the plane. “Guess again.” He said, “you got a summons and so did they.” Then, looking me straight in the eye, he asked earnestly. “Are you ready for it? How’s your shirt?”
I shifted my arm over the wine stain, “mine will do,” I replied. “How’s yours?” As the words left my mouth, my eyes sent a convicting image to my mind and my mind sent a frantic abort order to my lips. I mentally grabbed at my words and tried to pull them back. Too late! I squirmed a bit uncomfortably as I suddenly became cognizant that the man sitting next to me was wearing perhaps the whitest, most unwrinkled and well pressed white shirt that I had ever seen in my life.
There was an awkward pause as the man sized me up and pressed the issue. “Seriously, are you ready to meet the King?” His inquiry was pointed, yet his demeanor was disarming. In spite of the convicting nature of his line of questioning I suddenly got the impression that he liked me and that he genuinely wanted to help.
“Well,” I replied, pointing to the shirt I was wearing. “This is the best I’ve got and it’s all I’ve got so I guess that it’ll have to do.”
The man looked at me, looked at my shirt, and then looked back at me. “Are you aware of the standards, the dress code necessary to be accepted by the King?”
I didn’t know but I made up an answer anyway – a long answer. For the next half hour or so, we talked. Actually it would probably be more truthful to say that I talked and he listened as I explained what I knew about the dress code. As I understood it, in order to meet the King, you had to wear a clean white shirt so everyone got their shirt as white as they could. Some people used ordinary detergent, some people used bleach, some people used paint, and some used just plain water. Some resorted to religious techniques. There were various books on the market that explained those. Some washing techniques involved prayer, rituals, and fasting, or feasting depending on the technique. “….and some people obviously are going to have whiter shirts than others but in the end, if you want to see the King you get your shirt as white as you can and let the chips fall where they may.” I explained.
The man waited patiently while I exhausted my supply of explanations. “So what do you believe? Who’s right?” He asked after I had finished. “They all can’t be because a lot of them contradict each other. Think back to what you just told me. There’s feasting, there’s fasting. There’s wash it this way and only this way. There’s wash it that way and only that way. There’s the, “don’t wash it at all” method. There’s do it our way and get accepted because “everyone else is feeding you a bunch of hooey” crowd. Hey, those were your words, not mine. You also told me that there’s this belief out there that everyone will be accepted by the King no matter what because He just doesn’t have it in Him to deny anyone admission into His kingdom. So who is right, because they all can’t be? If they are then the King’s court looks like the Jerry Springer Show.”
He’d called my bluff and I was out of answers. I threw the ball back in his court. I answered his question with a question. “Beats me. Do you know?” I asked.
“Yes, I do.” The man answered. “They’re all wrong. Most of them are either half-truths or blatantly wrong.” He popped open his briefcase and pulled out a book. It wasn’t just any book though. I recognized it instantly. It was a copy of the “The Book.” “According to ‘The Book’,” he said, “you have to be wearing a pure white shirt, unstained and clean, neatly pressed with no snags, no patches or repairs, and no holes.” He opened “The Book” and began to show me where the dress code was explained.
As I read the words, I got this sinking feeling. It was clearly stated. I looked at my shirt. If what “The Book” said was true, it didn’t measure up. I looked around at the other white shirts around me. My only consolation was that I didn’t see anyone who was wearing a shirt that would measure up either. Everyone’s shirt was stained in one fashion or another. I looked back at the man holding “The Book” and at his white shirt. His was clean. His was pressed, unwrinkled. His didn’t have any blemishes or patches. Based on what was written in “The Book”, his measured up. “So what am I supposed to do? This is all I’ve got. Is there a solution?” I asked.
“Yes, there is actually.” The man said. “I’d like to propose an exchange.”
“An exchange?”
“Yes, an exchange.” The man opened his briefcase again, pulled out a new white shirt and, holding it up so I could see it clearly, went on to explain. “This shirt belongs to me but, if you will take off the shirt you’re wearing, and put this on instead, you will find that it fits you perfectly.
“What will it cost me?” I asked.
“On the one hand, it’s free. On the other hand, it will cost you everything.”
“Huh? That’s a paradox.”
“True. So let me explain it,” the man said. “For starters, you must realize what’s caused your shirt to become stained in the first place is your rebellion against the King. You have to end that right now and submit to His authority in your life. You also have to admit that your current shirt, as much as you’ve tried to cover up the dirt, is simply unacceptable to the King.”
I cut into his explanation. “Wait! What do you mean, ‘end my rebellion’? How have I rebelled against the King?”
“You have this idea that you have that you know how to run your life better than the King does. You’re a counterfeit king in your own life. You set the moral standards for what’s what and if your standard happens to conflict with the Kings’ standard, it’s too bad for the King. You’re gonna do what you want to do whether the King likes it or not. When it comes to your life, you believe and act out the sentiment that the King of your life is you and not the King of the Universe. I believe that you most recently expressed that sentiment this morning to the driver that I sent to pick you up. ‘It’s my life and I’ll do as I please. I know what my needs are much better than He does,’ were your exact words.’”
My jaw dropped. “That gorilla works for you? Just who are you anyway?”
The man spontaneously laughed. “Joel’s not a gorilla. His official title is Angel 1st Class and he works in the Transportation Department. We use him to pick up people who we think might offer resistance. By the way, he was dead serious about the leaving in twenty minutes thing. Although we don’t necessarily sanction the use of force, Joel’s got this thing for punctuality and in twenty one minutes, whether you went willingly or kicking and screaming, you were destined to be in the back seat of that cab and on the road. And, in answer to your second question, I’m the King’s son.”
As soon as I heard those words I snapped to attention. He was royalty and he was offering me an exchange. Mentally, I laid out the deal as the King’s Son had explained it. I either admit my shirt wasn’t good enough, take one of his, end my rebellion and be accepted by the King or I could persist in my rebellion, wear my own shirt to the meeting and be rejected. According to him, those were my only two choices.
As I was processing all of this, I suddenly heard my name spoken. I looked up to see a kid I had gone to school with standing in front of me, except he seemed different from when I’d known him back then. He seemed to have more joy, more confidence almost and he was wearing a white shirt that matched that of the King’s son. He looked at the King’s son and he looked back at me. Perceiving what was going on he said, “Take him up on the offer. Make the exchange. It’s the best decision I’ve ever made.”
“You?” I pointed to the King’s Son and then back to my friend. “He….offered you…..the exchange?”
“I know. Crazy huh? Hey, I gotta get back to my seat.” And with that, he left.
After he was out of earshot, I turned to the King’s son. “Okay, how did he really get that shirt? I knew him in high school and there’s no way back then that he would have something like that unless he stole it.”
The King’s son shrugged. “I offered him the exchange and he took me up on it.”
“Seriously? No way!”
“He’s not stupid. He recognized a good deal he saw it.”
I shook my head. If he could do it that meant anyone could and as good as it sounded, I still had a couple more questions. “I still don’t get it. How can this deal be free and yet cost me everything?”
“’The Book’ explains what’s going on but let me give you the abbreviated version,” the King’s Son said. “We can offer this exchange because I’ve already worn your shirt and the shirt belonging to everyone else on this flight too for all that matters. I took the rebellion of the world, the rebellion of every person who has ever lived and condensed it down into one solitary shirt. And I wore that shirt for three hours. Let me tell about what went on that garment. Every selfish, violent act that you can imagine was smeared on it. Every rape, every murder, every act of oppression, every evil thought and motive, every lie, every sin whether great or small, went on it. It was saturated in the unfiltered sewer from the city, layered inches thick in human filth, and I willingly put it on and went before my Father, the King, and experienced his wrath for all of it. He didn’t hold anything back. The location was Calvary, and the method of execution was crucifixion, the slowest, cruelest form of execution ever devised. I allowed myself to be scourged beyond recognition and then hung on a cross between two common criminals for three hours until the price for every sin ever committed was paid in full. Yeah, I could have called the whole thing off at any time. There were legions of angels ready to roll to my rescue, trust me, but I didn’t let them. I stayed on that cross. I let my blood be shed and experienced the ultimate consequence of sin. I experienced physical death and then, to show that He had accepted the sacrifice, my Father, the King, raised me from the grave on the third day. The exchange is free for you in the sense that you don’t have to pay the penalty for your rebellion, I already did that for you. But it will cost you everything because you will have to cease your rebellion and give up the idea that your shirt is good enough to meet the King’s dress code, the two things that you’re holding on to more tightly than anything else in the world.”
As the King’s Son spoke those words, I began to comprehend the implications of what I was being offered. I still had one more question however. “Why did you go through with it? Did the King force you?”
“No. I did it willingly. Actually, We all did it willingly. My Father, the King, Myself, and the Holy Spirit, it was a joint decision that We made before We created humanity. Look, We knew you were going to rebel and that if I didn’t do this that all of humanity was destined for hell. That was the natural consequence of your rebellion. We did it because We loved you. So here’s the deal. I’ve already worn your shirt and paid the penalty for it. What I’m offering you is my shirt in exchange. Listen, you’re going to have to wear a white shirt when you go to see the King so here are your options. You can either end your rebellion, wear my shirt and be seen in my righteousness which the King will accept or you can insist on doing things your own way, wear your own shirt, with your own righteousness which won’t measure up and the King will reject you. I want you to take my shirt but I can’t force you to take it. That would be like the King forcing me to go to the cross. That had to be a voluntary decision on my part and this has to be a voluntary decision on yours as well. So, what’s it going to be?”
As he held out the shirt to me I looked into the King’s Son’s eyes, they were pleading for me to take it. It was a gamble either way but slowly, cautiously, I took the shirt from his hand and made my way to the restroom. Once inside the small room, as I unbuttoned my own shirt and shed it and put on the shirt owned by the King’s Son, with each button I fastened, I realized that my rebellion was over. I realized that when I faced the King, I would be accepted, not on my merits but rather on the merits of the one who originally owned the shirt, His Son. As I made my way back up the aisle, I noticed something that I had missed before. There were still a lot of dirty shirts on the plane but scattered among them were clean white shirts just like mine.
As I handed my old shirt to the Kings’ Son to discard, he picked up on my observation. Pointing to them, He said, “Those people made the exchange too, just like you. They’re from every nation in the world.” He then handed me another envelope. “You’re gonna need this to get home after your meeting with the King.”
I opened it to find the boarding pass for my return flight. Puzzled, I looked up. “After your meeting with the King, I’m sending you back to your home town.” The King’ Son explained. “You gotta be my ambassador back there. Don’t worry, the Holy Spirit’s gonna be right with you. First things first though, you still have your meeting with the King. When we land, grab your carryon bag and walk through the terminal to the main street. Your ride will be there to take you to the palace.” And with that, the King’s son turned and gently nudged the guy in the aisle seat who was still snoring.
An hour later I got off the plane and made my way through the terminal. When I went out the door, I saw a man holding a sign with my name on it.
“Joel, you just get around all over don’tcha’?”
“Shut up and get in. Just because you’ve got a clean shirt on doesn’t mean you can be late to see the King.” As he took my bag and threw it in the trunk, he grumbled, “and you’re still carrying too much crap in that thing.” And with that he shifted the cab into drive and merged into traffic.
Copyright 2022 by Sam Roach
I’ll never forget that day. It was just a normal Saturday and I was on a roll, checking off items on the Honey-Do list. I was on pace to be done by noon when I saw the mail carrier drive by. He was a little early for a Saturday I thought but, maybe he also wanted to get done early, after all, mail carriers have lives too. In any case, I grabbed my keys, walked up the street, unlocked my mail box and there it was. A summons informing me that I would have to put on my best white shirt, the only white shirt I owned, and appear before the King of the Universe for a face to face meeting.
Now the idea of this meeting with the King was nothing new, at least not in my mind. I’d majored in history and I knew that almost every society since the beginning of time described this meeting in one form or another. The logistics of it however, varied from society to society.
It seemed that every religion agreed the key element of his meeting was the white shirt that a person wore when they went to it. The idea, common in most societies, was that a person was supposed to wear a white shirt and if the King approved of it they were good and if He didn’t, they were toast. At that point the agreement ended though because of a major problem with the shirt. It may have been pure white at some point in time but life happened and nobody’s white shirt was white anymore. The question was, how does a person get it clean again, clean enough so that the King would approve of it? Some people said as long as you washed it and you got the dirt out, even if it was stained, that was okay. Others said that as long it didn’t smell like your arm pit that the King would give it a thumbs up. Others however, said that you had to bleach it and then starch it until you couldn’t move in it, that that was the only way. My neighbor Joe said that if you took it to the cleaners and let the professionals clean it that that would get it done. Gladys, his wife, however, said that everyone got their shirt stained and that the King understood this. According to Gladys, “just show up like you are and you’ll be fine.” Personally, I think Gladys just hated laundry day. And then there was what was written in “The Book”. Ah yes, “The Book”, the ancient document, written over time. I hadn’t read it much but according to “The Book”, as close as I could tell, the shirt had to be as white as the day you got it. That always had struck me as being impossible to do but, to each his own I figured. In any case, regardless of the philosophy, when it came to the meeting with the King of the Universe everything depended on the shirt.
Now, although I knew that it could happen, honestly, receiving that summons in the mail that day caught me off guard. “Well, this is inconvenient!” I said aloud when I realized what it was. I had a ton of things to do. As I sauntered back to the house I began formulating a plan to defer this appointment. I remembered how I managed to weasel out of jury duty last year when, suddenly, I heard my name called. Startled, I looked up and saw, standing next to a taxi parked in front of my house, one of the biggest men I’d ever seen. The size of a gorilla, he looked like he belonged in the FBI. Black suit, white shirt, black tie…..shades. He had it all. Holding the back door open, he said. “Hop in. We gotta go.”
“Go where?” I demanded.
Pointing to the letter in my hand he replied, “To your summons. Your flight leaves in two hours. Move it. You’re gonna be late.”
“But I need to pack!”
“No you don’t. The King will provide what you need.”
“And just how will the King do that?” I protested. “He has a whole planet to manage so I think he has more important things to do than keep track of me and my stuff and besides, it’s my life and I’ll do as I please. I know what my needs are much better than He does.”
The big gorilla glared at me and I matched his stare. After a few seconds, our stalemate ended. “Twenty minutes.” He said tersely. “You have twenty minutes to pack one carryon bag and then I’m throwing your sorry butt and whatever else is in your carryon bag into this cab and we’re leaving.” And with that, uninvited, he followed me into the house.
As I shut the door, I glanced at him and said. “You know, for a guy who supposedly works for the King, you aren’t much of a gentleman. I’ve read somewhere that the King will never enter a house unless He’s invited. I don’t recall inviting you in.”
“Do I look like the King?”
Point taken. I grabbed a bag from the closet and frantically packed. And the big gorilla? Well, he was just standing against the wall doing his big gorilla thing. In stone cold silence he alternated between texting on his cell phone and shaking his head, giving me that look with each item I stuffed into my bag. At one point however, he did break the silence. “You really are your father’s son aren’t you?” He said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He packed the same kind of useless crap in his carry on bag too.”
“Jerk.” I mumbled as I subtly saluted him and continued to pack.
Ten minutes later, I was in the cab. As I buckled my seat belt, the big guy turned around and handed me an envelope. Upon opening it I found both my boarding pass and a tag for my carryon bag. Examining the tag it suddenly dawned on me that it was perfectly printed with all of my necessary contact information in the event that I lost it. I looked up. The big gorilla explained dryly. “He knew,” he said. “The King knew you’d uh,” he paused long enough to roll his eyes, “need this stuff.” And, muttering something else under his breath, he put the cab in reverse and pulled out of the driveway.
Ninety minutes later I was in the air, on my way to meet destiny. I managed to get a window seat and for some reason, the middle seat next to me was empty. The aisle seat however, was taken. During takeoff, the guy in the aisle seat and I had looked at each other, looked back at the empty seat, and smiled. More elbow room. That was, incidentally, the only interaction that he and I would have for the entire flight. He was kind of into his own world so this left me with lots of time to reflect. Taking mental inventory, it dawned on me just how unprepared for this whole thing I probably was. I had packed a carry on bag and it was heavy but I had no idea anymore what was in it or if it really mattered. Did I remember to pack a toothbrush or toothpaste? Deodorant? Underwear and socks? My cell charger? My cell phone? Did I forget my cell phone? I hoped not but I couldn’t find it at the moment. At least I had remembered to put on my white shirt. I hadn’t washed it since last Christmas but at least I’d remembered it. I glanced about the rest of the plane, locating the restrooms and the emergency exits. Something seemed to be a bit off although I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. In terms of nationalities and culture, age, gender, and vocations, there seemed to an equal representation of all socio-economic classes on this flight. That was a little unusual I supposed but that wasn’t it. Suddenly, it dawned on me what was different about this flight from every other flight I’d ever taken. We weren’t flying Southwest Airlines but there were no first class seats on this flight, just coach. Everyone, regardless of their lot in life, was flying coach. And me, I was in the middle of it, just me and my white shirt, which wasn’t so white any more. Turkey gravy and red wine stains were killers to get out.
Once we got in the air, time seemed to drag endlessly. There was nothing to do. Looking around, I observed that many of the other passengers appeared to be just as bored as I was but they seemed caught up in their own affairs and didn’t interact much with anyone else. For some unknown reason, there were no inflight movies either. I looked out the window and tried to imagine what the different shapes in the clouds were. That worked for maybe ten minutes. I shifted my gaze to the literature slot in the back of the seat in front of me. It was empty. The passenger before me took the literature with them when they disembarked. I shook my head. What kind of person takes the airplane literature with them when their plane lands? Wow! That person really needs to get a life. Of course what did that say about me? I was ready to dive into it like it was a New York Times’ best seller. I decided to let it go.
Ten minutes later, or maybe it was an eternity, I couldn’t tell, the flight attendants brought by the inflight snacks. Pretzels and a four ounce bottle of water. Breakfast of champions! Fortunately they did give me more than one and as I was ripping into my second bag, I suddenly realized something else about this flight. It was those white shirts again. Everybody on the flight was wearing one but like mine, nobody’s white shirt looked very white. Some people’s shirts were whiter than others but no one was wearing one that I would qualify as clean, in fact, some were down right filthy. And, as the air shifted, I realized that there was also this peculiar odor in the air. Sometimes it was less pungent, sometimes it was more, but it was never gone. It was always there. It was always……..there. I swore softly. Oh good Lord! It was me!
About this time I heard a snort and I forgot about my odor as I smelled a different aroma. My gaze followed my nose and I saw that the guy in the aisle seat had fallen into a deep sleep. Dead to the world he was. He was a snorer who liked garlic with the lung capacity of a bull moose. As he slept, he drooled ever so slightly.
After enduring this torture for about five minutes, I was contemplating self-medication. I was about ready to order a double shot of the strongest spirit of whatever they had from the inflight bar when I suddenly became aware of a man with a briefcase standing in the aisle. “Mind if I join you?” He asked, motioning to the empty seat with his left hand.
The first thing I noticed about his left hand was that it had a nasty scar. I glanced at his other hand, the one holding the brief case. Huh, he had matching scars. Now under ordinary circumstances I might have told him to take a hike but, I considered my options and decided he just might serve as a make shift wall to deflect the garlic smell. It was worth a shot. “Sure”, I replied. “As long as you aren’t selling insurance.”
He laughed. “No, I’m not selling insurance. But, since everyone on this flight received a summons, what I’m doing is talking to people and trying to see if there’s anything I can do help prepare them for their appointment with the King.”
“How did you know I was appearing before the King?”
“Son,” the man asked. “Why do you think the rest of the passengers are on this flight?”
“A lot of reasons I guess. Business, vacations, whatever.” I answered.
The man pointed to the other passengers sitting throughout the plane. “Guess again.” He said, “you got a summons and so did they.” Then, looking me straight in the eye, he asked earnestly. “Are you ready for it? How’s your shirt?”
I shifted my arm over the wine stain, “mine will do,” I replied. “How’s yours?” As the words left my mouth, my eyes sent a convicting image to my mind and my mind sent a frantic abort order to my lips. I mentally grabbed at my words and tried to pull them back. Too late! I squirmed a bit uncomfortably as I suddenly became cognizant that the man sitting next to me was wearing perhaps the whitest, most unwrinkled and well pressed white shirt that I had ever seen in my life.
There was an awkward pause as the man sized me up and pressed the issue. “Seriously, are you ready to meet the King?” His inquiry was pointed, yet his demeanor was disarming. In spite of the convicting nature of his line of questioning I suddenly got the impression that he liked me and that he genuinely wanted to help.
“Well,” I replied, pointing to the shirt I was wearing. “This is the best I’ve got and it’s all I’ve got so I guess that it’ll have to do.”
The man looked at me, looked at my shirt, and then looked back at me. “Are you aware of the standards, the dress code necessary to be accepted by the King?”
I didn’t know but I made up an answer anyway – a long answer. For the next half hour or so, we talked. Actually it would probably be more truthful to say that I talked and he listened as I explained what I knew about the dress code. As I understood it, in order to meet the King, you had to wear a clean white shirt so everyone got their shirt as white as they could. Some people used ordinary detergent, some people used bleach, some people used paint, and some used just plain water. Some resorted to religious techniques. There were various books on the market that explained those. Some washing techniques involved prayer, rituals, and fasting, or feasting depending on the technique. “….and some people obviously are going to have whiter shirts than others but in the end, if you want to see the King you get your shirt as white as you can and let the chips fall where they may.” I explained.
The man waited patiently while I exhausted my supply of explanations. “So what do you believe? Who’s right?” He asked after I had finished. “They all can’t be because a lot of them contradict each other. Think back to what you just told me. There’s feasting, there’s fasting. There’s wash it this way and only this way. There’s wash it that way and only that way. There’s the, “don’t wash it at all” method. There’s do it our way and get accepted because “everyone else is feeding you a bunch of hooey” crowd. Hey, those were your words, not mine. You also told me that there’s this belief out there that everyone will be accepted by the King no matter what because He just doesn’t have it in Him to deny anyone admission into His kingdom. So who is right, because they all can’t be? If they are then the King’s court looks like the Jerry Springer Show.”
He’d called my bluff and I was out of answers. I threw the ball back in his court. I answered his question with a question. “Beats me. Do you know?” I asked.
“Yes, I do.” The man answered. “They’re all wrong. Most of them are either half-truths or blatantly wrong.” He popped open his briefcase and pulled out a book. It wasn’t just any book though. I recognized it instantly. It was a copy of the “The Book.” “According to ‘The Book’,” he said, “you have to be wearing a pure white shirt, unstained and clean, neatly pressed with no snags, no patches or repairs, and no holes.” He opened “The Book” and began to show me where the dress code was explained.
As I read the words, I got this sinking feeling. It was clearly stated. I looked at my shirt. If what “The Book” said was true, it didn’t measure up. I looked around at the other white shirts around me. My only consolation was that I didn’t see anyone who was wearing a shirt that would measure up either. Everyone’s shirt was stained in one fashion or another. I looked back at the man holding “The Book” and at his white shirt. His was clean. His was pressed, unwrinkled. His didn’t have any blemishes or patches. Based on what was written in “The Book”, his measured up. “So what am I supposed to do? This is all I’ve got. Is there a solution?” I asked.
“Yes, there is actually.” The man said. “I’d like to propose an exchange.”
“An exchange?”
“Yes, an exchange.” The man opened his briefcase again, pulled out a new white shirt and, holding it up so I could see it clearly, went on to explain. “This shirt belongs to me but, if you will take off the shirt you’re wearing, and put this on instead, you will find that it fits you perfectly.
“What will it cost me?” I asked.
“On the one hand, it’s free. On the other hand, it will cost you everything.”
“Huh? That’s a paradox.”
“True. So let me explain it,” the man said. “For starters, you must realize what’s caused your shirt to become stained in the first place is your rebellion against the King. You have to end that right now and submit to His authority in your life. You also have to admit that your current shirt, as much as you’ve tried to cover up the dirt, is simply unacceptable to the King.”
I cut into his explanation. “Wait! What do you mean, ‘end my rebellion’? How have I rebelled against the King?”
“You have this idea that you have that you know how to run your life better than the King does. You’re a counterfeit king in your own life. You set the moral standards for what’s what and if your standard happens to conflict with the Kings’ standard, it’s too bad for the King. You’re gonna do what you want to do whether the King likes it or not. When it comes to your life, you believe and act out the sentiment that the King of your life is you and not the King of the Universe. I believe that you most recently expressed that sentiment this morning to the driver that I sent to pick you up. ‘It’s my life and I’ll do as I please. I know what my needs are much better than He does,’ were your exact words.’”
My jaw dropped. “That gorilla works for you? Just who are you anyway?”
The man spontaneously laughed. “Joel’s not a gorilla. His official title is Angel 1st Class and he works in the Transportation Department. We use him to pick up people who we think might offer resistance. By the way, he was dead serious about the leaving in twenty minutes thing. Although we don’t necessarily sanction the use of force, Joel’s got this thing for punctuality and in twenty one minutes, whether you went willingly or kicking and screaming, you were destined to be in the back seat of that cab and on the road. And, in answer to your second question, I’m the King’s son.”
As soon as I heard those words I snapped to attention. He was royalty and he was offering me an exchange. Mentally, I laid out the deal as the King’s Son had explained it. I either admit my shirt wasn’t good enough, take one of his, end my rebellion and be accepted by the King or I could persist in my rebellion, wear my own shirt to the meeting and be rejected. According to him, those were my only two choices.
As I was processing all of this, I suddenly heard my name spoken. I looked up to see a kid I had gone to school with standing in front of me, except he seemed different from when I’d known him back then. He seemed to have more joy, more confidence almost and he was wearing a white shirt that matched that of the King’s son. He looked at the King’s son and he looked back at me. Perceiving what was going on he said, “Take him up on the offer. Make the exchange. It’s the best decision I’ve ever made.”
“You?” I pointed to the King’s Son and then back to my friend. “He….offered you…..the exchange?”
“I know. Crazy huh? Hey, I gotta get back to my seat.” And with that, he left.
After he was out of earshot, I turned to the King’s son. “Okay, how did he really get that shirt? I knew him in high school and there’s no way back then that he would have something like that unless he stole it.”
The King’s son shrugged. “I offered him the exchange and he took me up on it.”
“Seriously? No way!”
“He’s not stupid. He recognized a good deal he saw it.”
I shook my head. If he could do it that meant anyone could and as good as it sounded, I still had a couple more questions. “I still don’t get it. How can this deal be free and yet cost me everything?”
“’The Book’ explains what’s going on but let me give you the abbreviated version,” the King’s Son said. “We can offer this exchange because I’ve already worn your shirt and the shirt belonging to everyone else on this flight too for all that matters. I took the rebellion of the world, the rebellion of every person who has ever lived and condensed it down into one solitary shirt. And I wore that shirt for three hours. Let me tell about what went on that garment. Every selfish, violent act that you can imagine was smeared on it. Every rape, every murder, every act of oppression, every evil thought and motive, every lie, every sin whether great or small, went on it. It was saturated in the unfiltered sewer from the city, layered inches thick in human filth, and I willingly put it on and went before my Father, the King, and experienced his wrath for all of it. He didn’t hold anything back. The location was Calvary, and the method of execution was crucifixion, the slowest, cruelest form of execution ever devised. I allowed myself to be scourged beyond recognition and then hung on a cross between two common criminals for three hours until the price for every sin ever committed was paid in full. Yeah, I could have called the whole thing off at any time. There were legions of angels ready to roll to my rescue, trust me, but I didn’t let them. I stayed on that cross. I let my blood be shed and experienced the ultimate consequence of sin. I experienced physical death and then, to show that He had accepted the sacrifice, my Father, the King, raised me from the grave on the third day. The exchange is free for you in the sense that you don’t have to pay the penalty for your rebellion, I already did that for you. But it will cost you everything because you will have to cease your rebellion and give up the idea that your shirt is good enough to meet the King’s dress code, the two things that you’re holding on to more tightly than anything else in the world.”
As the King’s Son spoke those words, I began to comprehend the implications of what I was being offered. I still had one more question however. “Why did you go through with it? Did the King force you?”
“No. I did it willingly. Actually, We all did it willingly. My Father, the King, Myself, and the Holy Spirit, it was a joint decision that We made before We created humanity. Look, We knew you were going to rebel and that if I didn’t do this that all of humanity was destined for hell. That was the natural consequence of your rebellion. We did it because We loved you. So here’s the deal. I’ve already worn your shirt and paid the penalty for it. What I’m offering you is my shirt in exchange. Listen, you’re going to have to wear a white shirt when you go to see the King so here are your options. You can either end your rebellion, wear my shirt and be seen in my righteousness which the King will accept or you can insist on doing things your own way, wear your own shirt, with your own righteousness which won’t measure up and the King will reject you. I want you to take my shirt but I can’t force you to take it. That would be like the King forcing me to go to the cross. That had to be a voluntary decision on my part and this has to be a voluntary decision on yours as well. So, what’s it going to be?”
As he held out the shirt to me I looked into the King’s Son’s eyes, they were pleading for me to take it. It was a gamble either way but slowly, cautiously, I took the shirt from his hand and made my way to the restroom. Once inside the small room, as I unbuttoned my own shirt and shed it and put on the shirt owned by the King’s Son, with each button I fastened, I realized that my rebellion was over. I realized that when I faced the King, I would be accepted, not on my merits but rather on the merits of the one who originally owned the shirt, His Son. As I made my way back up the aisle, I noticed something that I had missed before. There were still a lot of dirty shirts on the plane but scattered among them were clean white shirts just like mine.
As I handed my old shirt to the Kings’ Son to discard, he picked up on my observation. Pointing to them, He said, “Those people made the exchange too, just like you. They’re from every nation in the world.” He then handed me another envelope. “You’re gonna need this to get home after your meeting with the King.”
I opened it to find the boarding pass for my return flight. Puzzled, I looked up. “After your meeting with the King, I’m sending you back to your home town.” The King’ Son explained. “You gotta be my ambassador back there. Don’t worry, the Holy Spirit’s gonna be right with you. First things first though, you still have your meeting with the King. When we land, grab your carryon bag and walk through the terminal to the main street. Your ride will be there to take you to the palace.” And with that, the King’s son turned and gently nudged the guy in the aisle seat who was still snoring.
An hour later I got off the plane and made my way through the terminal. When I went out the door, I saw a man holding a sign with my name on it.
“Joel, you just get around all over don’tcha’?”
“Shut up and get in. Just because you’ve got a clean shirt on doesn’t mean you can be late to see the King.” As he took my bag and threw it in the trunk, he grumbled, “and you’re still carrying too much crap in that thing.” And with that he shifted the cab into drive and merged into traffic.
Copyright 2022 by Sam Roach