In this post I use words like “Evangelism,” “Witnessing,” “Christianity,” and “Religion.” Each reader will have a different understanding of these words, both in denotation and connotation. Personally, I’m in the murky depths, somewhere between a conservative upbringing and an emerging mystical faith, still feeling around for a vocabulary that doesn’t cause pain.

I was the teenage girl who painted “Jesus Freak” in giant letters on a bright yellow t-shirt, wrote songs about Jesus, spent two summers selling religious books door-to-door, and took a turn in every spiritual leadership position at my private school. I grew up in a small, rural church, and my eager interest was met with plenty of opportunities for involvement. I made floral arrangements and bulletins for church, served as Sabbath School superintendent and deaconess, led song services and provided special musics. Before I moved away for college, I preached a sermonette centered around a song titled “The Station,” in which Jesus’ followers are entreated not to take their heaven-ticket to the train station, but to go out into the streets where “there is work to be done.”¹

I bought evangelism—hook, line and sinker—but I didn’t grow into it. It was baggy and ill-fitting. I don’t recall ever having a conversation in which I tried to convince someone of God’s existence, God’s love, or their need for a relationship with God. Rather, Christian community was like being on an athletic team. It was a great way to keep me active, connected, passionate, and out of trouble. I believed everyone needed to “know Jesus,” and I faithfully kept a prayer journal and participated in all faith-feeding activities, but mostly I was just happy to be a good person (ignorance is bliss).

Fast forward 20 years, from the late 90’s to the late 2010’s. I no longer felt like a good person, and I was nursing a decidedly bitter attitude toward witnessing. At one point I participated in a Bible study focused on “winning” souls for Christ, and “warning” friends and relatives of Jesus’ soon return to Earth. I found these ideas as unpleasant as a wedgie, and I wanted relief from the discomfort. When I thought about “winning and warning,” what came to mind were a number of messages from my church (and purportedly from the Bible), including: 1) you are bad (sinful) and I know what can fix you (Jesus); 2) there is a god who has great things for you IF you submit to him, but if you don’t he’ll punish you; 3) your heart matters and your behavior matters, so it is imperative to work toward a pure heart and loving actions at all times; 4) once you’re in, it’s your job to bring more people in.

None of these messages set me free, so why would I spread them around? All of this assumes that people whose spiritual journey is different than mine are wrong, and it’s my job to convince them I have the truth (and they don’t). The primary reason for treating people well is so they’ll want to become Christian. Every person I add to the church books is a “jewel for my crown in heaven.” Yuck.

I thought about people in my circle of influence. If I’m not being nice to them with an agenda—to “win them for Christ”—is there still a reason to be nice? Do I haphazardly shoot love-darts, hoping to penetrate a hard heart? Am I being nice to assuage my guilt for the rampant selfishness in my life? I think about neighbors, friends, strangers. What reason do I have to treat them as valuable, dignified human beings? If I’m not intent on witnessing and converting, why would I take interest or go out of my way to care for someone?

For a time, I found comfort in something Jesus said. “I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!” (Matthew 25:40b, NLT). I know Jesus. I would go out of my way for Jesus. So if He is in every person around me, I am invested—in neighbors, friends, and strangers alike—because in loving on them I am loving on my bro, Jesus.

Jesus tells us to love our enemies, so presumably He does the same. He loves the people disinterested in His kingdom, and the people opposed to His kingdom. If this is true, then ought not my message to be that Jesus loves you? I don’t need you to come over here to where I am. I want you to know that Jesus loves you over there where you are.

But this comfort was short-lived. Even the phrase, “Jesus loves you,” started to feel risky. I know people who are gagging on religion, vomiting over and over, waiting for it to leave their system so they can breathe. Once they heal, they will be hungry. But not for what religion is putting on the table.

I’m deconstructing, along with thousands of evangelicals and exvangelicals in my generation. Yet while I reject churchy messages, my lifestyle for the last several years has included co-leading a house church, speaking for chapel at my kids’ school, blogging about my relationship with Jesus, and lending my favorite spiritual books to friends. If that’s not evangelism, Christianity, or church, what is it? If I’m not telling people they’re sinful and Jesus loves them anyway, who or what am I?

Next week, in Part Two, I’ll talk about finding new words and ways. There’s nothing final about it, and that’s okay. I’m getting more comfortable with uncertainty. Still, there is comfort in finding a toehold.

Endnotes:
¹ Lisa Marie Buster is a favorite musical artist, and I still enjoy her song, “The Station,” on the album by the same name.