HOW PEOPLE CHANGE...Or
"HOW GOD CHANGES PEOPLE"

The word "Change" signifies transition from one form, state, condition, attitude, position and/or location to another. These changes may refer to various physical, emotional or spiritual conditions and/or states for human beings are multi-faceted.

In 1973 Allen Wheelis published a book entitled, "HOW PEOPLE CHANGE." In chapter one he discusses various types of suffering from the kind that come upon us from outside ourselves such as accidents, weather and crimes perpetrated against innocents young and old alike, to suffering that is inside of ourselves. The list is, of course, endless including self-imposed suffering mental and physical. Wheelis relentlessly pursues the philosophical aspects of suffering throughout his little book seldom coming to a conclusion and never obtaining closure on any point. In Chapter IV "STEEL FINGERS," he discusses the point of view which teaches that "freedom is an illusion." He quotes B. F. Skinner's "Beyond Freedom and Dignity," as stating that the scientific study of behavior has shown it to be a fiction. "A person does not act upon the world. The world acts upon him." Christianity rejects this crass view of life.

The Biblical view is that we each have the power of choice...the power to choose to go the right way or the wrong way. Jesus' life and teachings broaden this concept to our inner spirit and attitude. Even though the world did indeed "act upon" Him He never reacted to it but instead responded to their needs. This beautiful aspect of his character is especially focused for us on the cross when He only thought of others instead of Himself. "Mother, behold your son. Son, behold your mother." "Father, forgive them, for they don't realize what they are doing." Thus the cross becomes a pivotal point for those who accept Christ as their Saviour and Lord. His spirit of love and self-sacrifice changes our lives...our attitudes and desires and entire direction in life. We are willing to give our all for the Saviour and those for whom He died. But not everyone experiences change in this manner.

In chapter five, "GRASS," the author tells a personal story about how his father set about to change his behavior one summer. The reason for this stemmed from the fact that eight year old Allen had received a low score of 75 in conduct. His only excuse was that he guessed that he talked too much and cut up with his friends. His father decided that it was time for Allen to learn how to concentrate on his work and learn the pride that comes from a job well done. He had planned to play a lot of baseball that summer with his friends but as it turned out they would have to learn how to get along without him.

His job was to cut the grass in the back yard which as it turned out covered several acres. Because his father had no lawn mower Allen assumed that the job would have to be done with one of the other tools they owned such as the hoe, scythe or sickle. But he soon discovered he was mistaken. After dinner his father gave him directions. The tool he was to use was an old, ivory handled, straight-edge razor. His father showed him how to grasp a handful of grass in his left hand and cut it level with the ground with the razor. Next he had to put the grass in a basket, along with any rocks or sticks that he found as he moved along on his knees. Each time the basket was full he had to take it some hundred yards where the grass could be emptied and burned. When the razor lost its edge and became dull he had to go to the barn and sharpen it on a whetstone. Allen changed his clothes, put on a straw hat and began cutting the grass.

His only thought was to finish the job as soon as possible so as to be able to play before the afternoon was over. At eight years of age he was not able to fully grasp the extent of the task or to gauge how long it would take him to complete the job. He began in the center of the "yard" and could see his father watching from his bed on the porch where he was bedfast with TB. After working a short time Allen had an idea. He walked to the house and stood under the windows of the porch. "Daddy." "Yes, son." "When I've finished can I play baseball?" "Yes." He resumed work, thinking if he cut fast he would get it over with in a couple of hours. For a few minutes all went well; there was some satisfaction in watching the thin steel cut easily through the dry grass. He grabbed big handfuls and hacked away with gusto. But then he heard his father's voice calling him. Once again he walked to the porch, looking up obediently. "Yes, sir?" His father was looking through field glasses at the small patch of ground that had been cleared. "Son, I want you to cut the grass level with the ground. Therefore you will have to cut slower and more carefully. Take a smaller handful at a time so you can cut it evenly." He also told him he must pick up every stone including the few pebbles left in the clear area. "Do you understand?" "Yes, sir." "Now go back and do that patch over again, and cut it level with the ground." "Yes, sir."

As he walked back to his place of labor he wondered why he had not started in some part of the yard out of his father's view. The work was harder now because the stubble was only one or two inches high and was very difficult to hold while being cut. It took him an hour to do again the area originally cleared in a few minutes. By now Allen was tired and disheartened. Sweat was running down his forehead and into his eyes. His mouth was dry. The razor could not be held by the handle, for the blade would fold back. It had to be held by its narrow shank which already had raised a blister on his hand. Soon he heard his friends calling him from the fence. "Whatya doin'?" "Cuttin' grass." "What's that you're cuttin' it with?" "A Razor." Of course, they laughed. They thought it was an odd thing to be cutting grass with. Then his father called him. "Son." "Yes, sir?" "If you want to talk to your friends, you may; but don't stop working while you talk." "Yes, sir." He continued cutting. One of the boys asked him what his father had said. "He said I have to keep on working." "You cain't play ball?" "No." "How long is he going to make you work?" "I don't know." The boys looked at him and then at each other. "Guess we might as well go on." "Hope you can get away later on." "Maybe. I'll see if he'll let me." After his friends left Allen tried cutting faster but his hand hurt. Several times he had struck rocks and the blade was getting dull. He slowly got up from his sore knees and went to the hydrant for a drink. Then he went to the barn and began whetting the blade on the stone. Afterward he sat down for a short rest out of his father's sight feeling relatively secure for the moment. "Son!" Hurriedly and with a sense of guilt he returned to his father's window. "Yes, sir." Get back to work. It's not time to rest yet." About mid-afternoon, when Allen surveyed all he had done so far, he saw how little had been accomplished. Heat waves shimmered before his eyes as he realized he would not finish the job today and perhaps not even by tomorrow. Slowing rising again to his feet he made the now familiar trek to his father's window. "Daddy." "Yes." "Can I quit now?" "No, son." "I cain't finish it this afternoon." "I know." "Then cain't I go play now and finish it tomorrow?" "No." "When can I play ball?" "When you have finished cutting the grass." "How long do you think it'll take me?" "Two or three months." "Well, can...?" "Now that's enough. Go back to work."

Allen resumed work but at a much slower pace. To save his aching knees he sat on the ground cutting around him as far as he could reach. "Son!" Once again Allen went obediently to the porch. "Do you want to be a lazy, no-account scoundrel?" The voice was harsh and angry. "No, sir." "Then don't you ever let me see you sitting down to work again! Now you get back there as quick as you can and stand on your knees." The sun slowly declined and the day went more slowly than ever. The shank of the razor cut into his hand and the blisters broke. He showed them to his father, hoping he could quit for the day, but his father bandaged them and sent him right back to work. He heard his friends talking as they returned to their homes from a long days play but they didn't stop to talk to him. He finally heard his mother calling him for supper. The day's work was over.

The next morning Allen woke up ready to go to school. But then he remembered the preceding afternoon and realized how much better off he had been in school than having to cut grass. Although he knew his father had plans for him to continue the same work no specific order had been given for this particular day. Therefore, he felt there was a chance to escape. So, he asked his mother permission to go play before his father knew what had happened. But after breakfast, as he was leaving his father heard his mother tell him to be sure and come back before dinner. "Son!" Allen stopped dead in his tracks. "Where were you off to?" "To Paul's." His father reminded him that he could not play until he had finished cutting the grass. "You don't remember me telling you that?" "No, sir." He knew he wasn't telling the truth. Allen began to explain how this job was going to take all summer while his friends got to play ball, etc. I don't see why...I...have to work all the time." His father slowly lifted his thin, gaunt frame out of bed and seized his son's ear with a bony hand propelling him into the bathroom where an interrogation and whipping took place, lasting one minute but seeming like an eternity. He had to enumerate his sins which included getting permission from his mother to do something which he knew was wrong...skipping out on work. And also for being sullen and insubordinate. His mother felt sorry for him as she heard his crying and sobs. Gradually, the sobs diminished and he washed his face and left the room, closing the door softly. Although he was aware that his mother was looking at him with compassion he avoided her eyes knowing one look at her would start his crying all over again. Without any further words he went to work. It was only the second day of a long, hot summer. He worked steadily and quietly, asking no questions, making no requests. The work was sort of an expiation for the guilt he felt. His father did not criticize him. His mother brought cold water for him to drink several times. She didn't mention his punishment but he felt a knowledge of it was eloquent in her eyes.

As the day wore on he felt better even though he could only dream about playing ball with his friends. That evening after supper his father called him into his room. His mother urged him to tell his father that he was "sorry." The family custom was that after every punishment there had to be a reconciliation. The bonds of integrity that held them had to be reaffirmed. Words of understanding had to be spoken and tokens of love given and received. I walked out on the porch. The sky was filled with masses of purple and red. Allen's father asked him, "Do you feel better now, son?" "Yes, sir." His father's blue eyes contained a reflection of the sunset. "I'm sorry I acted the way I did this morning," Allen said. His father laid his hand on his head and said, "You said you didn't know why you had to work, didn't you?" "Yes, sir, but I..." "That's all right, son," his father interrupted him. "I'll tell you. When you are grown you will have to work to make a living. All your life you'll have to work. Even if we were rich you would labor, because idleness is sinful. The Bible tells us that. I hope some day you will be able to work with your head, but first you've got to know how to work with your hands." As his father talked the large clouds were deepening to blue and black. "No one is born knowing how to work. It is something we have to learn. You've got to learn to set your mind to a job and keep at it, no matter how hard it is or how long it takes or how much you dislike it. If you don't learn that you'll never amount to anything. And this is the time to learn it. Now do you know why you have to cut the grass?" "Yes, sir." "I don't like to make you work when you want to play, but it's for your own good. Can you understand that?" "Yes, sir." "Will you be a good boy and work hard this summer until the job is done?" "Yes, sir." Allen left his father's room feeling better mainly because he felt good about being forgiven and being on good terms and accepted by his father.

Day after day Allen toiled in the hot summer heat continuing the same schedule week after blistering week. His father monitored him daily, as usual, and Allen continued to resist. Before the grass cutting job he rarely received a whipping but now they became common. Each time he had to apologize to his father in the evening and then listen guiltily to a restatement of the principles involved. Tirelessly his father would explain what he had done wrong, the importance of learning to work, and the benefit to his character which this discipline would eventually bring about. But after each of these sessions he would feel that he was innately lazy, unworthy and impulsive. Each time he would resolve to try harder to overcome his resentment but each time he would relapse. Every two or three days he would again become sullen or rebellious and again would be punished. Sometimes he saw his mother in tears and knew that she interceded in his behalf, but her efforts were ineffective.

All during June and July Allen worked every day except Sundays. Because the task seemed endless he made no future plans. However, about the middle of August his outlook changed. One evening at sundown he noticed that relatively little grass remained standing. For the first time since he had started he realized the job would have an end and that he would finally be set free. Surveying the remaining area Allen estimated he would be finished in about five days. He worked faster and more willingly. In spite of this increased effort he did not finish on the fifth or sixth day. But on the evening of the seventh day it was apparent to my father as well as to me that the next day the job would be done. Only one or two hours of work remained. But the next morning he awoke to the sound of rain. Although he wanted to work anyway just to get it over with he was told he would have to wait. He asked permission to go to his friend's house but permission was denied. About 9:00 AM the rain let up and he hurriedly began to work. But the rain started again and he had to stop. For awhile he stood under the awning which extended out over the windows of his father's porch and waited. Finally, he sat down A hour passed. But rain kept coming down in a steady stream that seemingly would last all day. The rain dripped from the canvas and formed a little trench in the ground near his feet. He just stared out at the gray sky in a dull trance.

Speaking out loud, Allen said, "I wish I could go to Paul's house." "It's not fair not to let me play...just because it's raining. It's not fair at all." There was no comment from the room where his father was confined. The minutes passed. "You're a mean "Xo&#%*," Allen blurted out. A strange feeling swept over him. He had never cursed before. He was not used to such words. But something violent was stirring inside of him. Something that seemed to be long stifled was rankling for expression. "If you think you can just kick me around all the time you're wrong...you *#&@#! old mean #$%&*@." At any given moment Allen expected to be called inside and given a whipping worse than he had known possible. But nothing happened. A minute passed in silence. Was it possible that his father had not heard him cussing him out? It seemed unlikely since the windows were open. He had to have heard. Still there was no sound.

The waiting began to get on his nerves. Feeling that he could not make matters worse he continued but this time he spoke louder and more viciously. "You're the meanest man in the world. You lie up there in bed and are mean to everybody. I hate you!" Allen began to feel astonished at himself. He was shocked that he was saying such things for he had never dared a word of disrespect. Still his father never said a word. "Perhaps," Allen reasoned, "he was waiting for him to say his very worst so as to be able to whip him all the harder." The rain just kept on coming down. The day was gray and quiet. The whole thing began to seem unreal. He felt like the absence of reaction was as incredible as the defamation. Both seemed impossible. It was like a bad dream and yet it was all so real. He determined to continue his tirade of verbal abuse against his father until he acknowledged that he was listening. He searched his memory for every dirty word he had ever heard. When the store of profanity was exhausted he stopped, listening breathlessly for some kind of response from his father. Yet, the stillness continued. "You #$%&*@XOX dirty SOB!" he screamed, "I wish you was dead! I wish you were dead, do you hear? Do you hear me?" He had finished. Now, surely something would happen. Allen cowered and waited for it, but there was no word from the porch. Not a sound. Not even the stir of bedclothes. His rage passed and he became miserable. He sat arms around his knees, staring blankly at the indifferent rain. As the minutes ticked by he became more appalled by what he had done. Its meaning broadened, expanded into endless ramifications becoming boundless and unforgivable. He realized that he had broken the commandment 'honor thy father and mother.' He had also taken the Name of the Lord in vain, the same as cursing God. He thought of what his mother would think and say when she found out. He pictured her face. She would cry. He sat in silence for another half an hour no longer expecting to be called. For reasons he could not comprehend the matter was to be left in abeyance. Finally, unable to endure further waiting he got up and walked away. He went to the barn wandering around morosely. He expected his mother to enter at any moment telling him his father wanted to see him. But she never came and the morning passed without further incident.

Allen entered the house for dinner not knowing for sure if his mother "knew" or not. When she smiled he knew that she didn't know anything. Surely something would happen now that he was in the house. He stayed as far from the porch where his father lay in bed as possible. Surely his father must know he was there. Still nothing happened. Allen couldn't eat and soon left the house and went back to the barn where he felt less vulnerable. Occasionally he would stand in the doorway looking out at the rain. But most of the time he sat on a box just waiting. He felt like a prisoner. Although he searched through his small understanding of his father he could find no rational explanation for the delay. It was uncharacteristic of him to postpone a whipping. Finally it occurred to him that his sin might so far exceed ordinary transgression as to require a special punishment. Perhaps, he thought, he would not be whipped at all but sent away from home, never permitted to return.

When supper time came he sneaked into the house trying to be inconspicuous. But his manner was so agitated that his mother was concerned. She looked at him inquiringly and ran her hand affectionately through his hair. "What's the matter, son? Don't you feel well? You look haggard." "I feel all right," he said. Allen sat alone on the back porch until called to the table. Although he made it through supper safely he felt his situation had not improved. The sword of Damocles still hung precariously over his unprotected head. It was too late to go outside again and he could not remain in the house without meeting his father. At the very latest the crisis could be put off only till family prayer. Perhaps that was the time when his crime would be related. Maybe they would pray for him and then expel him from home forever. He had just begun drying the dishes when the long-awaited sound was heard. "Son." Surprisingly enough it was not the wrathful voice he had expected. It was calm, just loud enough to be audible. Still it was enough to make him tremble and drop a spoon. For a moment it seemed he could not move. His mother broke the silence. "Your daddy wants you, dear." Allen put down the dishtowel and went to the door of the porch. "Yes, sir." "Come out here where I can see you." He approached his father's bed. His hands were clenched and he was biting his lip, trying not to cry. "Your mother tells me you haven't been eating well today. You aren't sick are you?" "No, sir." "You feel all right?" "Yes, sir." Sit down, son. I just called you out here to talk for a while. I often think we don't talk to each other enough. I guess that's my fault. We'll have to do better in the future. I'd like to hear more about what you're interested in and what you think, because that's the only way I can get to know you." He paused a moment. "Maybe you think because I'm grown up I understand everything, but that's not true. You'll find as you get older that no matter how much you learn there's always much you don't know. For example you're my own son and I ought to know you pretty well, but every now and then something'll happen that'll make me realize I don't understand you at all." Surely, he is leading up to something. As Allen sat listening to his father talk on and on he tried to brace himself for the coming blow. He choked back a sob. His father continued. "I don't think I ever understood my own father," he went on presently, "until it was too late. We were very poor---much poorer, son, than you can imagine. From year in to year out we might see only a few dollars in our house, and what little there was had to be saved for essentials. When we sold our cotton we'd have to buy like flour and sugar. We bought cloth, too, but never any ready-made clothes. Until I was a grown man I never had any clothes except what my mother made. I got my first store bought suit to go away to medical school in, and I don't believe my mother ever had a store-bought dress. My father worked hard and made his boys work hard. We resented it and sometimes even hated him for it, but in the end we knew he was right. One of my brothers never could get along with Daddy, and he ran away from home when he was fifteen. He turned out to be a no-account scoundrel, and the last I heard of him he was a saloon keeper in New Orleans. His father continued on telling about hoeing corn, picking cotton, fixing rail fences, chopping wood and feeding and taking care of the mules and pigs, etc. "It was a very different life from yours...and in some ways a better one." He looked at me affectionately. "At any rate, we learned how to work, and there's nothing more important for a boy to learn. It's something you haven't learned, son. Isn't that right?" "Yes, sir." "You will, though. If you ever amount to anything you'll learn. You're learning now. I wish you could understand though, that I wouldn't be trying to teach you so fast if I knew I would live long enough to teach you more slowly." He paused a moment. "Do you have anything to say?" "No, sir." "Then I guess you'd better see if your mother needs you." Allen stood up, hardly able to believe this was all. "Son." "Yes, sir." "Come here a minute." Allen went to the side of the bed and his father put his hand on his shoulder. "Remember, son," he said in a husky voice, "whenever it seems I'm being hard on you...it's because I love you."

Later on that night Allen awoke in terror from a nightmare. He lay trembling trying to convince himself it was just a dream. He thought of his father and tiptoed through the dark house to the porch where he saw his father in bed motionless. "Daddy?" he whispered. "Are you all right?" There was no reply and Allen became a afraid. But finally he became aware of his father's regular breathing. He went back to his bed but got up again and knelt on the floor. "Dear God, please don't let anything happen to Daddy. Amen." Then he thought about the razor. He couldn't remember what he had done with it. He got up and searched everywhere for it in vain. Finally, he went to the barn and found it in its usual place, safe and properly closed.

The next morning Allen finished cutting the grass before noon. The back yard was as bald as a razor could make it. "Daddy," he said, standing under the porch windows, "I've finished. Is it all right?" His father looked over the yard, then took his binoculars and scrutinized it in more detail, particularly the corners. "That's well done, son." Allen put away the basket and razor and went inside. But after dinner was over he began to feel uncomfortable. It seemed strange not to be working. He wandered about the house, looking out the windows and wondering what to do. Soon he sought and obtained permission to go to Paul's house, but somehow he felt like he was doing something wrong.

During the next two weeks Allen often played with his friends but never fully lost himself in play and was secretly glad when school started and life settled down to a routine again. He was more quiet than before and better behaved. When the next report cards were distributed he had a nearly perfect score in conduct.

This is the end of the chapter entitled, "GRASS." I first read it about two years ago. It made an impact on my mind like nothing I had ever read regarding teaching a child how to learn how to work. At times I felt the father was a very cruel man to make his little eight year old work so hard and so long at a task that would have discouraged and embittered a full grown adult even if he had the proper tools. But to demand that he only use a razor seemed to me to border on cruel and unjust punishment. It is amazing that the mother did not stop the father or demand that her son be given some time off to play once in awhile. Obviously, the woman was sympathetic but ineffective in curbing her husband's excessive measures. In essence she enabled him. In today's world Allen father might well be turned into the authorities for child abuse. Even by Allen himself. "Grass," was first copyrighted in 1958. In the next chapter, "The Vision of Change," I find the following comments by the same author most insightful as to the effect that eventful summer of 1908 had upon his later years.

"My father and I have never parted. He made his mark on me that summer, and after his death that fall continued to speak on a high-fidelity system within my conscience, speaks to me still, tells me that I have been summoned, that I am standing once again before him on that glass porch giving an account of myself, that I will be found wanting, still after all these years a 'low-down, no account scoundrel,' and that this judgment will be binding on my view, that I shall not now or ever be permitted to regard myself as innocent or worthy." (An incredible negative judgment on the method his father chose to change his behavior).

"These things, accepted as true, make one a slave, have so made me and make me still, fifty years after those pale blue eyes have gone to the grave. Whenever a current situation calls upon me to stand forth, to present myself, my father spaces again with undiminished authority. His denunciation yields guilt and anxiety, tends to drive me out of human society into the wilderness alone, thereby to confirm ever more deeply the image of myself as unworthy to live with others, having nothing to say, deserving of no recognition. To accept that image altogether is to die; I have accepted it in part, have found in the writing of books a fearful way of denying it. From exile I send back messages: 'I'm still here!' 'Don't forget me!' 'I do have something to say. Please recognize me!'"

Paul declares in Philippians 1:1-6 that the things that had happened to him had fallen out or turned out to be a blessing for the sake of the gospel. Paul was able to see that "All things truly do work together for good to those who love God." Rom. 8:28. But Paul wasn't always of this frame of mind. Chapter 7, 8 and 9 tells the story of Saul of Tarsus before he became Paul the apostle. He was one of the cruelest and meanest hombres (men) that ever lived. But when the Lord Jesus chose to reveal Himself to Saul everything began to change. It did not change all at once but the changes started that day the bright light shined on Saul. This is a good example of God's Sovereign right and will to intervene in a person's life for purposes of mercy. He doesn't do it to everyone but He certainly did it with Saul.

We might look at other people in the Bible and how they changed. Samson was endowed with supernatural strength but used it to glorify himself. So, God allowed Samson's life to change for the worst and he ended up grinding grain for many long years. This wrought a change in his life so that he repented of his sinful, selfish, self-serving and indulgent lifestyle. Yet, he still did not know the true character of God for in his dying moments Samson was seeking revenge upon his enemies by requesting that God destroy the Philistines for putting his eyes out. A further work to complete Samon's character perfection yet awaits him in the future.

Moses is another example of a man that was changed by the circumstances the Lord arranged. After trying to rescue Israel by killing the Egyptians Moses found himself a fugitive in the desert where God began to reveal himself to Moses little by little. It took forty long years but finally Moses met God in the burning bush and reluctantly submitted Himself to God's leading Providence to deliver Israel from Egyptian bondage. Joseph and Daniel are two men who served the Lord from their youth without rebelling. They both had that "excellent Spirit" which recommended them to the powers that be.

King David is yet another example of a man who was shaped and developed by circumstances. Although he had a lot of problems and failed many times God continued to use him and his life as an example of God's great love and power to deliver under all kinds of circumstances.

Mary Magdalene is an example of a woman who was changed by the love and forgiveness of the master.

Mary, mother of Jesus, was selected by God to be the mother of Christ because of her excellent character. She evidently had no evil spirits or demons and was selected as a perfect female vessel to bear the Son of God.

Ezek. 21.7. "Every heart shall melt."

In Jeremiah's day many wicked men wanted to silence his Godly witness against their wickedness and rebellion against God. Jeremiah prayed, "O Lord of hosts, that judgest righteously, that triest the reins (feelings) and the heart, let me see thy vengeance on them: for unto thee have I revealed my cause." Jer. 11:20. Then again in Jer. 17 the mighty God of Israel again reveals the anguish of His broken heart as He continues to reach out to these hard hearted, rebellious people. In clear, unmistakable language He spells out the curses and blessings that await them depending upon their positive or negative relationship to him.

He tells them their sin is written on their heart with a pen of iron. "O mountain of Mine in the countryside, I will give over your wealth and all your treasures for booty." He goes on to tell what other tragedies will befall them including serving their enemies in a foreign land (Babylon)."Thus says the Lord, 'Cursed is the man who trusts in mankind And makes flesh his strength, and whose heart turns away from the Lord, For he will be like a bush in the desert And will not see when prosperity comes, But will live in stony wastes in the wilderness, a land of salt without inhabitant. Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord and whose trust is the Lord. For he will be like a tree planted by the water, That extends its roots by a stream And will not fear when the heat comes; But its leaves will be green, And it will not be anxious in a year of drought Nor cease to yield fruit."

"The heart is more deceitful than all else and is desperately sick; Who can understand it? I, the Lord, search the heart, I test the mind, Even to give to each man according to his ways, According to the results of his deeds."