My husband and I start and end our days the same way: walking loops through our neighborhood, discussing first what we think the day will be like, and later, how it actually went. My husband waves at absolutely everyone and will strike up a conversation with anyone within yelling distance. I wasn’t surprised, then, when he remarked on some neighbors’ landscaping while they spread mulch around their flower beds. We’re not much into landscaping, but these neighbors are quite passionate about it and gave us a tutorial on getting rid of some Japanese beetles that are apparently ruining all our rose bushes (We checked our struggling roses when we got home—they were right.).
We chatted for a bit, and I double checked their names before heading home. This morning I added their names to my daily prayer list. I glanced at the long list of names and thought about some of my other neighbors, the cashier at the grocery store, the teller at the bank, the barista—all these people in my small sphere of life in a small rural town who likely don’t know Jesus or the power of salvation by grace through faith. Living just to the left of the Bible Belt, you never know what people think about Jesus until you ask them. Some will profess faith while living in complete disobedience and rebellion against Christ. Others will talk about him as one might mention Gandhi or Mother Teresa—a humanitarian or wise teacher, nothing more. My husband always says, “People have to do something with Jesus. You can’t be immune to him. You either believe or you don’t.” With the lost in my circle, the unbelief spills over into values, possessions, relationships, speech. Weirdly, the same is true of me at times. My unbelief spills over in a flood of unremarkable similarity to the culture and world I live in.
A few weeks ago, I was seated on a plane next to a man in his forties who asked me about my work and my reason for traveling. I was crossing the country to teach at a conference about God’s presence in our suffering. “I’m a writer,” I told him a bit sheepishly (because that never sounds like a real job). “What do you write about?” he asked. “Well, I’m a Christian, so I write about faith and following Jesus,” I replied. He nodded and asked how the summer weather has been in my area. Here’s your chance, I thought. Just go for it. Ask him about Jesus. But he was talking about his traveling reasons and a bit about his life, and I kept thinking, whatever I say won’t resonate at all with this guy. We’re too different.
I had a connecting flight in Denver, and this time I was seated next to an elderly man near the back of the plane. He was reading on a tablet—a novel, I thought, by the looks of it. I asked him where he was headed. “Home to Reno. I’ve been in Iowa visiting my brothers. It’s been nice but I’m glad to be headed home. I like to sit by the Marina Park Lake and read. All day long, I just sit and read. That’s the retirement life!” I asked what he did before retirement, and he took me all the way back to his first job as a furrier in Alaska. It had to be in the late 40’s or early 50’s when he moved up north to work. “Have you ever been to Alaska?” he asked. “You’ve never seen anything like the light there. Everything is tinged with blue. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.” His descriptions of light and stars and water and mountains drew me in. This is it, I thought. Creation is an easy leap to the gospel. But just then, the flight attendant pointed out the row of empty seats to me and asked if I’d like to move. My seat companion urged me to move so we could both stretch out. Should I stay and keep the conversation going? Conflicted, I moved across the aisle and up two rows where I sat alone for the remainder of the flight.
I’ve thought about both of my seat companions several times since then and wondered why the words stick in my throat when there’s nothing more important to share than hope in Christ. It’s not like I had to lead them in a “prayer of salvation” to effectively share Christ with them. All I really had to do is point them to the hope that I have, the forgiveness, the story about a Savior who died so we could live. I had perfectly laid paths to get there. But unbelief stood in my way. Not theirs, but mine.
As I’ve been studying the book of 1 Corinthians the past couple of months, I’ve been struck by the assumption that believers will share their faith in Christ. It’s a given, it seems, that those who have been changed by the power of the gospel of Jesus will speak of him to others. Paul urges the Corinthians numerous times in the first few chapters to ignore the elocutionary prowess (or lack thereof) of the messengers and focus on the message. Christ crucified and risen for the forgiveness of our sins—that’s the message the world needs. It’s the message that changed my life. I’ve seen its power with my own eyes. But, at the root of my fear to speak forthrightly with my flight companion or the new neighbor is the sin of unbelief. I worry more about the delivery, the receipt, the uncomfortable silence I’m sure will follow a remark about sin. But Paul never said to worry about how the message is received. He never said to twist any arms or convince someone to pray a prayer by any means possible. He said that what matters is the message: Jesus.
In Colossians 1, Paul sums up his suffering and his ministry saying, “For this I toil, struggling with all his energy that he powerfully works within me” (Col. 1:29). There’s a lot of freedom packed into that short summary. We obey, but it’s his energy, his work, his message, his kingdom. Here’s the good news I am setting my face upon these days: the message of the gospel is power unto salvation, believers only plant and water the seeds of that gospel message, and it is God who gives the growth. He is enough for you when you’re standing on the sidewalk talking to neighbors about roses and pest control. You can get to know your neighbors and talk to them about Jesus without fear that your awkward delivery will close the doors of heaven to them. You can sit next to a stranger in an airplane and ask them about their lives—listening well and looking for ways to mention your hope in Jesus—without fear that the potential for an uncomfortable silence will drive them further away from Christ. You are just a messenger of a good, good message. You can share it with hope instead of fear when you entrust every conversation to the Lord. His ways will not be thwarted by stammering or awkward silences.
You may have a hundred neighborly conversations threaded with the gospel before your neighbor is ready to answer what they believe about Jesus. We’re in this for the one-off airplane conversations, and we’re in this for the long-haul, love your actual neighbor conversations. People have to do something with Jesus. You can’t be immune to him. You either believe or you don’t. If you do, you can speak his name without fear. Lord willing, I’ll remember that when I head back to the neighbors’ house with a loaf of bread and some questions about Japanese beetles.
You are just a messenger of a good, good message. You can share it with hope instead of fear when you entrust every conversation to the Lord. His ways will not be thwarted by stammering or awkward silences. Share on XPhoto by Kay Ingulli on Unsplash
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.