Tag Archives: evangelism

Am I Delaying Jesus’ Coming?

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I may be impeding the second coming of the Messiah.

Let me explain.

As I embrace spiritual uncertainty, my Christian denomination is included in that uncertainty. My faith group of origin—and current community—is Seventh-Day Adventist (SDA), but I refer to myself as “badventist” to portray the distance I feel from the doctrines I signed my name to uphold more than 30 years ago.

The name “Seventh-Day Adventist” incorporates two of the church’s most precious truths: we rest and worship on the seventh day of the week, and we believe in the soon second coming, or “advent,” of Jesus Christ. According to SDA’s, biblical interpretation of Scripture predicts a worldwide decline before Jesus descends from “heaven” and carries away the saints—including those who resurrect upon His arrival. After that we sit around for 1,000 years, Earth incinerates, then gets made new, and we move back in. (Disclaimer: this is what my brain recalls of our church’s teaching. The well-studied may find errors.)

This pre-second-coming world decline involves an increase in “knowledge,” natural disasters, merrymaking, Antichrist, and moral decline. Many SDA’s also believe that every person in the world must hear the gospel of Jesus Christ before the second coming—hence, a focus on evangelism. Missionaries travel all over the world to tell people about Jesus and undertake projects like translating the Bible into local language.

In this worldview of planet-decline-followed-by-destruction, it can be considered wasteful to invest too much in taking care of the planet—I remember a sermon titled, “It’s All Gonna Burn.” Wouldn’t it also be wasteful, then, to care for people without telling them about Jesus? If they’re happy and healthy but don’t know about Jesus, they’ll go to hell happy and healthy. Not much “eternal value” there. (Although SDA’s don’t ascribe to an eternally burning hell, just a quick fiery death.)

At the time of this writing, I find myself on a quest to help people without telling them about Jesus, and it looks like this: I believe writing is healing, speaking and hearing our stories is healing, and in marrying those two healing forces, my desire is to guide small groups in writing together and reading aloud our writing. The goal is to create space for marginalized people (which is all of us, at times) to have a voice, to own our stories, and to find wholeness in the process. The goal is not to introduce people to Jesus. So, am I delaying the second coming, heaven, and the world made new?

When I was a kid, we had neighbors up the road who believed in God, but—I was shocked to find out—believed the world would gradually get better and better, instead of worse and worse. A google search informs me their belief may be called postmillennialism, in which Jesus essentially will return to a saved earth. This almost makes more sense to me.

It sounds like the SDA view is suggesting that the more people who know Jesus, the worse off the world becomes. Doesn’t that seem odd? Spread the gospel everywhere, and once everyone has heard about Jesus the Earth will be in the worst shape it’s ever been. Jesus will then swoop in to save the righteous few and burn up the rest. I’m having doubts about how all this will go down.

For the time being, I mostly leave the destiny of the world in God’s hands—surprise me. I don’t need to know. Anyway, humans have a pathetic track record when it comes to predicting the future—even from intensive study of Scripture.

Having said all that, I still experience a nagging feeling that it’s “wrong” to help people without telling them about Jesus. Am I delaying the glorious new earth by helping people get healthier and not introducing them to Jesus? Shouldn’t I introduce them while they’re acutely aware of their need of a Savior? Once they get healthy they might be less motivated to “convert.”

In all honesty, I’m not firmly settled on the question—or the answer. But I am sure about setting this aside, for now. God partners with me—or I partner with Her—to relieve suffering. If I’ve missed the mark by excluding overtly religious material from my writing group curriculum, I have complete confidence in God to point me in a new direction.

Who knows, maybe we’re all invited to make this world a better place in order to set the stage for the return of our Beloved.

Bible Sidekick

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When I was eight years old, I signed a baptismal certificate, and Pastor Bryson baptized me into the Seventh-Day Adventist Church. I remember practicing how to hold his arm while he held the dry washcloth over my face, so I could go under without breathing in water.

Six months later, for my ninth birthday, my parents purchased a Bible from the Christian book store, where they had my name embossed on the cover. They let me choose the embossing color—rainbow shimmer—but they kept the Bible out of sight. I used to wish I had chosen plain silver embossing, to please the adults and to match my tastes as I grew older. But at eight-going-on-nine, I wanted rainbow shimmer.

I was allowed to invite one family to our home for my birthday celebration each year, and for my ninth birthday I invited Laura and Eric. They were the only people I knew in their early 20’s, and I admired them as only a nine-year-old can. Laura had dark brown hair with one curly spot in the back where her previously-straight hair grew back in a curl after a diving accident. She had a petite frame, and a lovely accent from spending a year in Latvia. Eric was tall, with long everything—legs, arms, torso—and a wide, impish-yet-innocent smile.

I don’t remember much about my ninth birthday. Pictures remind me that I dressed up in elegant old skirts from our dress-up stash. Laura and Eric gave me a miniature rose plant, and my parents gave me the Bible—a red letter edition NKJV with a pink, bonded-leather cover.

I read the Bible cover to cover that year. I read about creation and Abraham and Moses, the cut-up concubine, prostitution and murder, lying and rape, greed and gratuitous violence. I read about Ruth and Esther, the Song of Songs, and somehow made it through Lamentations and the major and minor prophets. I read the shocking story of Jesus’ beginnings and the shocking story of His death, and through the exhortations of the apostles, all the way to the “Amen” at the end of Revelation chapter 22, verse 21.

I don’t recall having any questions, registering any shock at the violence, or finding any difference between the God portrayed in the Old Testament and the God portrayed in the New Testament. It was the Bible. I assumed it was all okay to read, and unnecessary to question.

By the time I completed 8th grade, I could find any Scripture reference in 30 seconds or less. My pink Bible accompanied me for the livestream of Dwight Nelson’s Net ‘98 evangelistic series, and Mark Finley’s Net ‘99 evangelistic series, both projected on the big screen in my home church. I began a lifelong habit of morning prayer-journaling after Net ‘98, the year I turned 13. In the front of my Bible I glued a handwritten copy of Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken,” and a variety of Bible “study helps” I never used. With The Marked Word study guide as my starting point, and armed with half a dozen pastel-colored gel pens, I underlined more than 30 chain studies.

After homeschooling basically forever, I attended Milo Adventist Academy (MAA) for 11th and 12th grades. Our family lived in the small southern-Oregon community where MAA occupies a slope beside the South Umpqua River, so as a high school student I attended the same church I’d been attending since I was born. As a student at MAA I served in almost every spiritual leadership position available. I was a group facilitator at a youth Bible conference, Spiritual Disciplines small-group leader, Junior Class Spiritual Vice President, and Student Association Spiritual Vice President. For a school talent show, I memorized and recited Psalm 139 and won a cash prize.

The summers I was 16 and 17 years old, I spent away from home, selling religious books and vegetarian cookbooks door to door with a Seventh-Day Adventist group called Oregon Youth Challenge. We led church services on weekends and Bible studies some weeknights, and my pink Bible and I took a tour of the SDA churches around Gresham, Oregon and Vancouver, Washington, while book sales helped fund my private school tuition.

Wherever I went, throughout my teen years that well-marked Bible was like a fifth appendage. When the youth leader said, “Hold up your swords!” my “sword” was always handy. I was well-prepared to fight with that sword, but I never did.

I don’t recall interacting with anyone who was interested in the Bible from a curious, unknowing space. Everyone I knew was either a “nominal Christian,” bumping along in apathy, or they were doing the same things I was, memorizing and marking Bible studies and verses that reinforced Adventist doctrine. Books I read and pastors I met told stories about meeting someone who was “hungry for the truth,” but I didn’t see or experience this firsthand.

Despite swallowing the Bible hook-line-and-sinker, even in high school I couldn’t imagine sharing the “plan of salvation,” telling someone they’re a sinner in need of saving. Although I soaked in Scripture and prayer, I didn’t feel any urgency to share my experience as a Christian. I sat squarely in the middle of an us-vs-them mindset, but the act of inviting a “them” to join “us” was far from my desire and far from my experience.

The Bible, I think, was something for me to be good at. I “knew” my Bible. I could find any verse in a few blinks of the eye, ask thoughtful questions (within accepted norms), and share my observations and opinions. I can’t imagine not having the Bible at that time in my life. I read it, marked it, loved it.

When I packed my room and drove eight hours to move into a college dormitory, I had no idea what was ahead for me and my Bible.

Read the next part of the story on February 7.

God Is Not in Control, Epilogue

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I never intended to write four posts about how God is not in control. What began as one question has evolved into piles of questions, most of which remain unanswered. But today I really am going to wrap up with a final post on the topic (at least for a while).

As I’ve reflected on what it looks like to move away from “God has a plan” and “God is in control,” I’ve found those sentiments everywhere—in books, emails, prayers, small group conversation. We are so desperate for control that we have assigned it to God with certainty and force.

Dare I say evangelism springs from a desire to control? We want people to be on our side. We want them to be “saved”—from what? Eternal burning? I don’t believe in that. Pain? We’re all on the pain train. A meaningless life? Okay, but fitness or family or any number of things can provide meaning in life. Are we proving we’re right by convincing other people to think the way we think? Are we earning God’s favor? Trying to avoid eternal separation from people we love?

Doggedly we seek to control how our lives turn out, how other people’s lives turn out, how the world and eternity turn out. We want to do our part. We want God to do His part.

Jesus wasn’t big on asking people to agree with Him before they followed Him. What if we invited people to follow us, to see what life is like for a human well-loved by God, taught by Jesus, and emotionally intimate with the Spirit? What would it look like if evangelism focused on showing what a messy life looks like with God, rather than on cleaning up the mess?

Church people like to talk about being “in” or “out” of the church. “Our neighbors aren’t in church any more.” “Her oldest boy stopped going to church.” When a kid is “out” of church, the parent doesn’t rejoice and say, “I’m so happy I have no control, and so grateful that God gives the power of choice. I can see the spiritual freedom in my daughter’s choice to not believe in God. It illustrates God’s character beautifully.” Nope. We go to battle, employing rigorous prayer and subtle (or not-so-subtle) manipulation; we adjust our theology; we feel sad and helpless; we obsess about it or refuse to think about it at all.

While eager to praise God for free will and the power of choice, we simultaneously do everything possible to control the people She puts in our lives. Is that because we’d rather trust Her control than Her goodness? Would we rather eradicate addition than accept discomfort? “Better safe than sorry,” we say, not realizing that our version of safety insulates us from God. Am I willing to trust in God rather than trust in the safety She provides? Harry Shaumburg put it like this, and it gives me pause:

As I learn to trust God, I acknowledge how little I really know of what it means to rely on God and demand nothing. I’ve seen only a glimpse of what it means to put my confidence in God in a way that goes beyond a demand for safety and comfort. Yes, I have tasted what it means to have faith in God … but I’ve only begun to trust … [T]rust is a decision to enter the reality of a fallen world that is at best disturbing.

– False Intimacy, by Harry Schaumburg, page 87

I used to think trust ought to take me out of reality. Schaumburg suggests the opposite—that trusting God will immerse me in the reality of our disturbing, broken world. Do I really want that? On the other hand, do I want God to control this spastic world into submission? I don’t respond well to the people in my life who control. I move away from them, subvert their efforts, focus on our differences, and even flaunt my choice to not do what they want. That’s not the response I hope to evoke in friends, or strangers. Am I willing to trust God while feeling the discomfort of humanity? Willing to not know what He’s going to do about this mess?

God invites me to exhale the need for life—mine and everyone else’s—to turn out well, then inhale love. Love is spontaneous, annoying kindness; food and forgiveness; boundaries and truth—in all places at all times. When control dies, an unexpected stream of creativity emerges and confirms my identity: made in the image of God who creates.

From Jesus Freak to Evangelism Phobia, Part Two

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In this post—as in last week’s 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.

***

“Aren’t you the one with a blog talking about Jesus?” Khalid asked.

I was at the home of my friends, Khalid and Tiffaney. They’d been to a concert earlier that week, which I avoided because of the musician’s evangelistic bent. “I don’t like evangelism,” I said, which prompted Khalid’s question about my blog.

“I certainly hope people don’t think I’m evangelizing!” I deflected the question.

It had not occurred to me that my blog (and my social handle @jesusmyfavoritesubject) could be viewed as evangelism. I have written over 100 blog posts, with the premise that talking about Jesus is one of my favorite things to do. What is that, if it’s not evangelism? Suddenly, I needed to answer this question.

I asked my husband if what I’m doing is evangelism. In his typical style, he looked up the word on his phone and found half a dozen definitions, all of which involved the concept of convincing another person. A Google search tells me that to convince is: to bring (as by argument) to belief, consent, or a course of action; persuade; cause (someone) to believe firmly in the truth of something. Combine this with the gospel of Jesus Christ, and you have evangelism: teaching or preaching about Jesus with the aim to bring about belief or action. Is that what I’m doing? I don’t want to answer.

A gray Jeep with a “Jesus Loves You” bumper sticker kept showing up on B Street last week. I passed it on my way home from school pick-up, and it got me all up in arms. Rather than joy at the sweet reminder of how loved I am, my response was irritation. People have all different conceptions of Jesus; the person displaying the sticker has no idea how many painful ideas he or she is promoting along with the positive ones. “Jesus Loves You” doesn’t see people, it talks at them. It doesn’t have any idea what tragedies or triumphs are on the reader’s mind, and it cannot weep or rejoice with them. The sticker is evangelism. I don’t like that I don’t like it … but I don’t like it.

One Friday afternoon, while chatting with my friend Celina at her dining room table, I brought up the question of whether I’m evangelizing. She asked, “If you’re not trying to convince when you write, what are you trying to do? What do you hope will happen when people read your blog?”

“I want people to feel seen,” I said. “I want them to be able to take a deep breath. I want them to know they’re okay.”

If God is in the picture, I hope people will see God seeing them.

On the eve of my recent 38th birthday, I spent a couple hours making a mental list of 38 people who have influenced me. It included coworkers, authors, family, and friends. Every influence was gentle; not one produced an about-face change in my life. They were quiet but strong: my boss—Jerry Mason—who believed in me, gave me responsibilities I would never have pursued on my own, and whose confidence in me was a steady presence in my life for over eight years; the authors—Gregory Boyle, Barbara Brown Taylor, Anne Lamott—who gave me permission to breathe, to try life open-handed; our mom tribe—half a dozen ladies who see me and allow me to see them. This is the kind of influence I hope for in writing.

I suppose I’m inviting people to be at home in themselves, rather than reject themselves to be at home in Christ. Krispin Mayfield, in his book Attached to God, writes about the Christian experience of sinfulness, and compares it to the pain of disconnection described in attachment theory.

It struck me that the theology I’d been given and the attachment literature I was reading seemed to be describing the exact same thing but offering different explanations. The theology taught that this awful feeling of ‘inner deformity’ was because of things we’ve done—lying to our parents, disrespecting teachers, sneaking extra candy. The psychology suggested that the terrible feeling came from what has been done to us. … (pg. 169)

When we have an insecure attachment, we feel awful inside not because of our sin but because of our unmet needs. It is the feelings of distance and separation that create the intense pain of shame. … (pg. 170)

“We think that if we can get a little bit better, a little less sinful, we will feel better about ourselves. In reality, true connection heals shame. (pg. 173)

True connection. That I might be willing to shout from the rooftops. I want to offer the things I thought I had because I was a Christian, but slowly and devastatingly found out I didn’t have: hope, peace, love, joy. These are almost synonymous with Christianity, but they evaded me for decades. So as I’ve found them, I’ve also found different language. When I share hope, I talk about how it’s okay to not be okay. When I share peace, I talk about disentangling from perfectionism. When I share love, I talk about expansiveness. When I share joy, I talk about coffee and friends.

I guess I’ve always wanted people to know they’re loved, and for a long time I thought telling them about Jesus was the best way to do that. But I was “the blind, leading the blind.” Religion created a structure in which I could feel my way around while my eyes were closed. But at some point I started bumping into sharp corners, and I didn’t feel safe any more. God suggested I sit still and open my eyes. In that terrifying posture of stillness, I learned to hold hands with myself, let myself be loved, and let life be both brutal and beautiful—“brutiful,” as Glennon Doyle would say. The structure of religion was an external protection. The beauty of loving and being loved is an internal strength. I’m learning to be strong rather than safe, and that’s what I want share. Is that evangelism? I still wonder about that.

From Jesus Freak to Evangelism Phobia, Part One

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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.