By James P. Long • 10/22/2012 l
I’m writing this from the pier in Oceanside, Calif., reflecting on a conversation that took place in such a similar setting 68 miles north of here on the Seal Beach pier. A conversation that changed my perspective of evangelism, a scene vividly recalled, replayed now as I write this years later.
At the time, I was deeply engaged with sane but aggressive evangelistic efforts throughout Southern California. Every Friday night, I was on Broadway in Los Angeles with a group of Christians, street preaching, playing guitar, sharing my testimony and explaining the Gospel to passers-by one-on-one.
I did the same every Saturday night on Hollywood Boulevard. Sunday afternoons, an associate and I conducted evangelistic children’s meetings at parks, on the Southern California beaches and in housing projects around L.A.
An Unforgettable Encounter
This one early summer afternoon, I had been dropped off at the Seal Beach pier with a guy a couple years younger whom I would spend the afternoon "mentoring," showing him how to cold-call share his faith.
We walked onto the pier, and I scanned the area for prospects—preferably students—who looked like they had time on their hands and might be open to conversation. The pier was oddly sparse, though I did notice an old guy in a blue windbreaker and white shorts, in his 70s I guessed, with white hair a bit long and wind-blown, his face weathered and sunburned. He was fishing and, I said to myself, so were we.
As we approached and greeted him, his face brightened. "Sure," he said, he "had a few minutes to talk." I remember thinking he probably lived alone and appreciated someone to talk to. But the mood changed as I was not more than a couple sentences into my spiel. He cut me off, midsentence, with his story.
"My wife and I were active in church. Real active. We never missed a service, and we volunteered whenever they needed a hand. Then my wife got sick. As her health failed, it became more and more difficult for her to get out, and people felt awkward around her—they didn’t know what to say—so gradually, they stopped coming around. The cancer advanced, but she lingered. The longer she was sick, the more alone we were. No one came, no one called." He paused, composing himself. "Then one day she died, and the church sent flowers."
He was trembling slightly, his face redder, his eyes moist.
"The church sent flowers." He repeated it, the words an indictment.
I was speechless, and my friend looked on helplessly. The awkward silence grew, yet I stood there, motionless, immobilized. I write this now through tears. In time I realized I had been looking down. I managed to raise my eyes, said, "I’m sorry," turned and walked away.
Flight of Faith
Years later I was on a packed flight from Washington, D.C., to Chicago. I had been assigned a center seat, toward the back of the plane near the roar of the engines. A co-worker took the window seat on my right and a young woman, a stranger named Denise, took the aisle seat on my left. As the plane taxied and then finally left the runway, Denise shared her story. She was returning home to Chicago to visit her young son who was being raised by her parents because of her addiction and consequent legal problems. She hoped one day to regain custody. If only there was a way to start over.
I recognized the coincidence of United’s seating assignment as a divine appointment, and for the next hour and a half, I talked about Jesus, listened to questions and misgivings, and read from a hardbound copy of the New Testament I had retrieved from my carry-on. I had, in fact, passionately tried to personalize the words of Paul for her, at one point taking out my pen and writing her name into my Bible so that Romans 6:23 read: "The wages of Denise’s sin are death, but the gift of God to Denise is eternal life through Christ Jesus our Lord." That same New Testament is open at my side as I write this.
I felt the descent of the plane as we settled into our approach to O’Hare. My pulse quickened. Time was running out. Would Denise respond? Would she pray the prayer before we landed, taxied to the gate and deplaned?
No, in fact, one flight-length conversation with a stranger was not enough.
The Piercing Question
There is little likelihood that someone in Denise’s circumstances will spontaneously decide to go looking for Jesus, who modeled for us a shepherd who did not wait for straying sheep to find their way home, but instead went out looking himself.
And what do we say to a lonely widower who feels abandoned and neglected by a church he once loved? Whose life is haunted, even years later, by one sad scene. "One day she died, and the church sent flowers."
Paul’s question should pierce us: "How can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard?" Yet I am convinced, as you are, that for evangelism to be optimally effective, the message needs to be presented in the context of long-term, loving relationship, authenticated by compassionate care as we walk the journey together. So what about those on the fringe, those who in the moment of greatest need we most easily neglect? Don’t we have an obligation to expand the circle of our relationships to include those with whom we may hold the least in common? Those we might otherwise fail through indifference, ineptitude or neglect?
What ever happened to evangelism? It became relationship, but somehow we must reach everyone. It became service, but it still cries out for words.