Today my wife and I ducked onto public transportation.  The doors opened and only two seats were free.  I squeezed next to an older man on the left with some luggage and my wife beside me.  The man moved his big case a little, and I apologized for the inconvenience.

The man next to me on public transportation, who seemed to be my age, said it wasn’t luggage.  It was a musical instrument.  It was a saxophone.  He was on his way to a gig with a band.

I told the man my sister played the saxophone.  We talked about the saxophone.  I mentioned someone I knew who played the tenor saxophone.  He said it was difficult to play, hard to stay in tune.

The man couldn’t play saxophone with my sister, if she even still played, because she’s in North Carolina.  I was from California.  He had family in California.  His grandmother married an American, a war bride.

When I looked up and commented on the direction of the train, he said it was fine.  He affirmed my wife and I were going the right direction.  I thanked him.  He asked where I was going.  I told him, church, a Baptist one.  I asked if he knew about the Baptists.

Since Christ there have always been churches separate from the state church, known by different names.  During the Reformation, their enemies called them Anabaptist, because they rebaptized adults sprinkled as infants.

Baptists baptized believers.  No one is sprinkled in the Bible.  This is how I headed into the gospel.

The day before my wife and I took a taxi from our car rental to a train.  I talked to him about the local Cathedral.  I went to the gospel.  I had explained that by the time we arrived.  I left him with a gospel tract.

The saxophone player wouldn’t take a gospel tract, but he was thinking.  He did that because what I preached was clear.  It was clear enough that he could understand.