The Vending Machine

Once upon a time (the 1974-5 academic year), in a place named Bob Jones University, a freshman student studying science lived in one of the men’s dormitories. It was named Reveal, but this had nothing to do with the 60’s and 70’s campus craze known as streaking. He came from a far away place known as Massachusetts, and it took him some time to adjust to the culture of the southeastern United States. At first he thought that grits tasted a lot like, well, grit, and he wondered why anyone would eat them. Also at that time the dining common served a concoction called creamed eggs, and he almost gagged on them the first time he tried them. Said individual now enjoys both—apparently he has completed his journey to the southern side.

Sometimes he supplemented his diet with other things. There was a nice place called the Dolly Madison store nearby (a ten minute walk from Reveal), where outdated goods were sold for a pittance. In this magical store he could buy 10 single-serving fried pies (cherry, apple, lemon, and blueberry) for only $1. Yes, they were expired, but sometimes they kept him from expiring. And there were other delightful things, too.

One Sunday afternoon the nice young man was hungry and wanted a little something different. He decided to go downstairs to the lobby of his dormitory and buy something from the vending machine. This was an old-time machine, and he dropped in a few coins and pulled on a knob. A candy bar clunked down into the slot at the bottom. He went back to his room, eagerly tore open the wrapper, and happily began munching. After one or two bites he looked at the candy and saw some little white things wiggling around. Yes, folks, he had eaten some worms.

There’s this idea that science people are objective and analytical and carefully evaluate possible courses of action before proceeding. Not this time. The young man did not know (or in the heat of the moment had forgotten) that the digestive enzymes in his stomach would proceed to attack the little white worms wriggling inside him and turn them into muscle, enzymes, and other useful things. Oh no, there was no hint of measured response.

I panicked, showed my roommates the candy, and asked if anybody had anything that I could take to kill the worms. Bob—one of my junior roommates and a native son of Mississippi—helpfully grabbed a bottle, handed it to me, and said, “Here. Drink some of this.” I dutifully obeyed by taking a good slug of the straw-colored liquid. And then I looked at the label. It was called something along the lines of Dr. Tichenor’s Antiseptic Mouthwash. And it was 40% alcohol. Just in case you don’t know, that stuff was 80 proof, and very shortly after I drank it I experienced a sensation of warmth and my face flushed red. From what I’ve read, that means that my blood alcohol content was at least 0.04%. I never did see those little white worms again, and I also don’t recall whether I ever bought anything from that vending machine again.

Of course, not all vending machine experiences are negative. There are so many great things you can buy. There are the usual things like bottled water, soft drinks, candy, protein bars, and chips. I’ve read that in Japan you can get ice cream, and in China you can buy live crabs. Apparently in Europe in some places you can get hot pizza from a vending machine. Really? And then there are tee shirts, hot cooked Ramen noodles, baguettes, bike parts, cupcakes, cooked burgers, salad, and even caviar. It’s reported that at least at one point in time you could buy LEGOs from vending machines at some German train stations. Go figure. How about mashed potatoes or pecan pie? Or umbrellas, shoes, books (new or used), makeup, diapers, cellphones, iPods, or noise-cancelling headphones? If you’re willing to travel, then it seems that you could just about live life only with items bought from vending machines.

Problem is, sometimes we treat God as though He’s some kind of celestial vending machine. Just drop in a prayer and out pops a warm pastry. How much can you get for some extra Bible study? Surely attending church more faithfully is worth a pay raise.

Here’s the thing: God wants us to get to know Him, not just use Him. How much like Him are we? After Helen (his wife) died, C.S. Lewis wrote a book chronicling his subsequent agony. It’s entitled A Grief Observed, and if you’re struggling with a loss, then perhaps you might benefit from reading it. Lewis poured out his thoughts, and although some of them were very dark, he also critically evaluated them. In this book he refers to Helen as H., and he recognized that sometimes we try to use God to get our way:

Am I, for instance, just sidling back to God because I know that if there’s any road to H., it runs through Him? But then of course I know perfectly well that He can’t be used as a road. If you’re approaching Him not as the goal but as a road, not as the end but as a means, you’re not really approaching Him at all.

I’ve done this. There was a point in my life where I was really, really tired of dealing with the consequences of a particular sin I was struggling with. It affected my relationships with my wife and children. So I tried Bible reading and prayer and, as some people say, it didn’t work. That was the whole problem: “It” didn’t work. Of course it didn’t. I was trying to use the celestial vending machine just to get away from a problem. God doesn’t play by our rules, and if you want to have a real relationship with Him, then you have to do things His way:

Seek the Lord while he may be found;

call upon him while he is near;

let the wicked forsake his way,

and the unrighteous man his thoughts;

let him return to the Lord, that he may have compassion on him,

and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

Neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord.

 (Isaiah 55:6-8 ESV)