Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, September 5, 1993 TAG: 9309050018
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Cody Lowe
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
Every once in a while, though, someone really special comes along - someone whose existence provides evidence of a beneficent deity. Someone who is a blessing.
One of those people was Stewart Robertson.
A lot of Christians talk pretty unconvincingly about the joy their religion brings them. Stewart didn't just talk about joy or his religion - he lived them. And those around him couldn't help but notice.
In the fifth chapter of Matthew, Jesus admonishes his followers to "let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and give glory to your father in heaven."
It was advice that Stewart was able to follow with an ease that made it seem downright natural.
Oh, he wasn't what you'd call a do-gooder - not someone engaged in high-profile philanthropy. But he was someone whose love for his fellow human creatures was always shining through, usually in little ways.
Stewart was known by hundreds in Botetourt County for his integrity, his honesty, his compassion, his smile, his complete lack of guile.
Nobody's perfect, of course, but you'd have a hard time finding someone who didn't like him.
Those of us who are fellow members of his church not only liked him, we truly were family.
It's easy for churches - Stewart's and mine included - to fall into the trap of thinking too much about how many people are on the rolls.
One of the fastest-growing religious specialties is the so-called "church-growth" specialist.
Congregations - many of them declining in numbers and spirit - spend thousands of dollars seeking advice on how to reverse the disheartening trends.
At Fincastle United Methodist Church, Stewart Robertson could have taught the experts a lesson or two. It wasn't numbers he was interested in, it was people.
He held no title of pastor, missionary or evangelist, though he deserved them more than many who do.
He never beat anybody over the head with a Bible or his version of Christianity. He didn't drag people into church.
Stewart would just start talking. Casual, like. Smiling an infectious elfin smile.
"How are you?" wasn't just a conversation starter with Stewart, he really wanted to know.
Sooner or later, something was liable to trigger Stewart to talk about God - how good God is, or how helpful in time of need.
And he was apt to ask you to church. No high-pressure sales; just a sincere invitation.
When visitors showed up, Stewart was likely to be the first person to greet them, to make sure they were introduced, to urge them to come back, to get them involved.
Once he got 'em in, Stewart was likely to be an occasional teacher of their adult Sunday school class.
He was a teacher with no smug sense of knowing all the answers, though.
What he had were questions. What was his personal responsibility to God? To his fellow human beings? Why would God permit evil? Should we be bolder about sharing the "good news" of our faith? Where were we failing?
Sometimes the questions led to chaos rather than answer and order. It may not have been the best teaching technique, but the questions were nearly always good ones. The kind we all face.
Like, why couldn't someone else have faced the pain and trial of cancer these last few months rather than someone who spread so much sunshine in the world?
When Stewart died Monday, something immeasurable was taken away from those of us who love him.
But he left us more than could ever be taken away - an example of the kind of love and joy he believed Jesus taught him to give.
\ Cody Lowe reports on issues of religion and ethics for this newspaper.
by CNB