Previous Challenge Entry (Level 1 – Beginner)
Topic: Evangelism (11/01/07)
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TITLE: Faith For Sale | Previous Challenge Entry
By M. I.
11/06/07 -
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The fire starts to die down. They wrap their sleeping bags around their shoulders and get comfy near the flames. Everyone knows its time to talk about “the deeper stuff.”
“When you graduate, what will you do?” one asks.
“I don’t have a clue, man.”
“Well, I still want to be a pastor, but I feel God wants me to go into missions. Not sure where yet.”
“Yeah?” I say, opening my big mouth. “I could never do that. I mean, witnessing is hard enough as is.”
“Aw, come on,” they group crows. “It’s not that bad.”
“Trust me. It is.”
“Leave her alone,” one of my closer friends says with a grin. “She had a bad experience once.”
“Shush!” I say. But its too late. They’ve heard, and they want to know. I stare at their expectant faces, their sleepy, happy eyes, and I tell them. I tell them the whole story.
* * *
Here he is in the middle of February, some little Italian with missing teeth and a bald head, calmly selling chintzy necklaces on the corner in front of Starbucks. I don’t know for how much. Maybe a buck. Maybe fifty cents. I never asked.
My youth group has just driven hours to reach a teen conference. It is our second day in Syracuse. When we go out for breakfast this morning, I walk a bit ahead, and I notice him first.
He has on ratty clothes and knit gloves with the fingers missing. Each hand holds two or three plastic necklaces entwined in his fingers, and as I get closer, I see crosses and a Catholic-style Marys dangling piously. He holds his hands out, palms up as if to placate the crowd.
He stops me cold in my tracks.
I’ve always wanted to be a radical, one of those Christians that stood on a soapbox, thumping their bibles and bellowing salvation. Something like that. When I see this guy it is like God had handed me a megaphone while shouting, “Here’s your chance! It’s perfect! Go, go, go!”
My heart pounds, I break out in a sweat, I take a step towards him—
What about the rest of the group? My flesh whimpers.
That’s right. My group. What will they think? What will they say? We are in a hurry; will they want me to witness? What will I say anyway?
Oh God. What will I say?!
Every Bible verse I’ve ever memorized flies out of my head. Every lecture on proper witnessing protocol vanishes. And I panic.
Ducking back into the rest of my group, I walk as far away from the man as I can get, listing a frantic pros-vs-con list of what would happen if I tried talking to the man. My hands shake as we near him.
What is wrong with me? This was what I want, right? This was who I am! A Christian! Go ye into to all the world and preach—how many times have I prayed for God to show me someone to witness to?
I go past him, dash into the Starbucks, and tell myself its over, to forget about it. But it’s not over. No way would God let me off the hook that easy. As we leave the Starbucks and head back to our hotel, I realize with horror he’s still there—and he looks up. His eyes meet mine. His face is transformed by hope, he smiles just enough to reveal his decaying teeth, and lifts the necklaces in the smallest gesture.
I think, I can’t do it, I won’t do it!
God has one more card to play. He gives me one last chance. One of the adults accompanying our group eases over to me and says, “Why don’t you witness to that homeless man over there?” Just like that, right out of the blue.
I stare at the man. I stare at the plastic necklaces with their crosses and Marys.
God hands me the microphone.
And I shove it aside.
* * *
Around the campfire they can hear the silence. Everyone is looking into the fire, away from me, away from my regret. It oozes from me in waves. I messed up.
Don’t mess up.
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