So many times when we are witnessing to nonbelievers, we try to do it on our own terms. We have tracts, nifty little Bible-verse salvation plans, and even arguments to prove God’s existence, and we often approach people with these methods we’re acquired when trying to witness. In no way do I believe that it is wrong to have these methods all planned out and ready to whip out, however, I do not believe that it is the way in which we should approach people. We need to meet people on their terms, be incarnated. Too often we try to make witnessing about us: about what we know and how we can “help” people. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe this “help” that you are trying to offer is actually hurting people? That’s what happens when we try to live in our comfort zone.
We make ministry about us, we want to do what we know we can do. We as Christians are called to love our neighbor as ourselves. We need to love our neighbor AS ourselves - not like ourselves, as ourselves. Comfort is what we want for ourselves, so why not provide that for our unbelieving neighbor? Though it is definitely possible, it is rare to find a witnessing situation where both parties remain comfortable the entire time. So what does that mean for us? In order to give our neighbor what we would want for ourselves, comfort, we must sacrifice our own comfort. More often than not, both parties cannot be completely comfortable, and we need to be the ones to sacrifice for our neighbor. We must live in tension.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Live to be Forgotten
Many Americans today would say that their biggest goals include fame or status of some sort, however, this is not the kind of life that we have been called to as Christians. We are called to live an invisible life, unnoticed. This may seem shocking to many of you, and until you fully grasp the concept of this message, that is totally understandable. So often we think “if only I had the popularity, then I could tell the whole world about Jesus!” I do not believe there’s anything wrong with this idea, but perhaps from the point of view it is coming from is where there is error. We are not called to seek after fame as Christians. Rather, we need to put our complete and total trust in God and let him take us where he wants to. The reason I find error in saying “if only I had the popularity….” is because then we are focusing on ourselves – “if only I….”
We need to rather be so focused on Jesus that when people look at us, they only see him. Then, we will not need to desire fame as an opportunity to witness; we will already have that influence by the time we get there. Think of any famous, godly evangelist you know today. Did he acquire fame and then start preaching the gospel? I would assume that would be very unlikely. Rather, he probably started spreading his witness in a small neighborhood and grew from there. We should desire not fame as a means. What we should desire is to be so consumed with Jesus Christ that when people look at us, they only see him. We must hide our lives in Christ so that we may appear with him in glory.
We need to rather be so focused on Jesus that when people look at us, they only see him. Then, we will not need to desire fame as an opportunity to witness; we will already have that influence by the time we get there. Think of any famous, godly evangelist you know today. Did he acquire fame and then start preaching the gospel? I would assume that would be very unlikely. Rather, he probably started spreading his witness in a small neighborhood and grew from there. We should desire not fame as a means. What we should desire is to be so consumed with Jesus Christ that when people look at us, they only see him. We must hide our lives in Christ so that we may appear with him in glory.
Colossians 3: 3-4
“For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.”
Monday, January 4, 2010
A Memory I Can Only Wish Would Fade
I remember it like it was yesterday, not even yesterday, it feels like I am experiencing it all over again right now. It was Monday, a beautiful summer evening, not too hot, but warm enough to know that it was summer time in Atlanta, Georgia. I had been having a pretty rough weekend, and I had really started feeling overwhelmed Saturday afternoon. Sunday was only worse, and Monday came with no improvement. But then Monday night, the Braves game with my youth group. Turner Field was like my home away from home - well for the summer time anyways. I knew that my ill mood would hinder my experience at the game, so I shoved it aside with great difficulty. While walking towards the stadium, my youth pastor asked me “Hey Bethany, how are you doing with everything? I’ve heard things are starting to get pretty bad.” Fighting for composure, I forced a smile and said “It’s been a rough weekend, but I’m not going to let me get bogged down tonight - I’m here to watch ball!” I had to keep repeating that in my head over and over again, hoping that I would begin to believe these words. “Just hold on until tomorrow,” I kept telling myself, “tomorrow you’ll go visit and then everything will be ok.”
The first two innings are now a blur, I was too busy fighting back worry and tears to really pay attention to the game. Then, at the end of the top of the third the call came. My friend, who was sitting a few rows behind me, came and sat next to me. Obviously holding back tears, she looked at me and said, “He’s gone. I just got the call, and he’s gone.” Have you ever seen a movie where time stands still? That was exactly how I felt at this moment. It was like the world was moving in slow motion, soundless as I sat trying not to believe what I had just heard. I became faint and thought I was about to lose consciousness, but then my friend, the same one who broke the news, helped me walk out of the bleachers to the walkway around the stadium. I lost control; I started shaking uncontrollably and wailing so loudly that Turner Field employees nearly called an ambulance for me. Normally, I would never cry in front of people, much less in a very public place. But now I did not even care. I let it all out.
After nearly an hour of weeping uncontrollably, the calls began. Those dreaded calls. Being one of the first to find out, I felt a responsibility to start informing people of what had happened. “Hey, it’s Bethany. I thought I should let you know that he passed around 7:45 this evening.... I’m so sorry.... When I hear more details I’ll let you know.” I repeated that message for what seemed like an eternity. By the time I finished, I felt numb. Then I would remember, “Tomorrow. I was going to see him tomorrow. I knew things were bad and was going to say goodbye tomorrow. Tomorrow.”
Finally, by the seventh inning stretch, I had made all my phone calls and composed myself enough to at least go sit with the group again. Nobody really talked to me, and, honestly, I kind of preferred it to be that way. I just sat there in silence with tears rolling down my cheeks for the next two and a half innings.
The Braves won that night. The fans cheered. The fireworks launched. The celebrations continued. The world continued. That was perhaps the hardest thing for me to grasp. How could the world continue on like nothing had happened? My world seemed to be crashing around me. One of my closest friends, who practically saved my life was no longer there. Gone. How could the rest of the world continue on as normal?
I still do not know the answer to that question, and I still feel the sting just as strong when I remember the words “He’s gone. I just got the call and he’s gone.” I still feel the guilt of not going to the hospital sooner, and I still blame myself for not praying hard enough. I know in my head that there was nothing I could have done to save him, but my heart continually tells me, “if only you had done more, then he would still be here with you.”
I wish I could say that things got brighter: that his death made me stronger and that I have been able to use it for good. To a degree, I suppose those things did happen, but not enough to count as anything significant - not enough to counteract everything he could have done if he were still here. Why he was taken so early, I suppose I will never know. But for now, there is nothing I can do but continue living on.
The first two innings are now a blur, I was too busy fighting back worry and tears to really pay attention to the game. Then, at the end of the top of the third the call came. My friend, who was sitting a few rows behind me, came and sat next to me. Obviously holding back tears, she looked at me and said, “He’s gone. I just got the call, and he’s gone.” Have you ever seen a movie where time stands still? That was exactly how I felt at this moment. It was like the world was moving in slow motion, soundless as I sat trying not to believe what I had just heard. I became faint and thought I was about to lose consciousness, but then my friend, the same one who broke the news, helped me walk out of the bleachers to the walkway around the stadium. I lost control; I started shaking uncontrollably and wailing so loudly that Turner Field employees nearly called an ambulance for me. Normally, I would never cry in front of people, much less in a very public place. But now I did not even care. I let it all out.
After nearly an hour of weeping uncontrollably, the calls began. Those dreaded calls. Being one of the first to find out, I felt a responsibility to start informing people of what had happened. “Hey, it’s Bethany. I thought I should let you know that he passed around 7:45 this evening.... I’m so sorry.... When I hear more details I’ll let you know.” I repeated that message for what seemed like an eternity. By the time I finished, I felt numb. Then I would remember, “Tomorrow. I was going to see him tomorrow. I knew things were bad and was going to say goodbye tomorrow. Tomorrow.”
Finally, by the seventh inning stretch, I had made all my phone calls and composed myself enough to at least go sit with the group again. Nobody really talked to me, and, honestly, I kind of preferred it to be that way. I just sat there in silence with tears rolling down my cheeks for the next two and a half innings.
The Braves won that night. The fans cheered. The fireworks launched. The celebrations continued. The world continued. That was perhaps the hardest thing for me to grasp. How could the world continue on like nothing had happened? My world seemed to be crashing around me. One of my closest friends, who practically saved my life was no longer there. Gone. How could the rest of the world continue on as normal?
I still do not know the answer to that question, and I still feel the sting just as strong when I remember the words “He’s gone. I just got the call and he’s gone.” I still feel the guilt of not going to the hospital sooner, and I still blame myself for not praying hard enough. I know in my head that there was nothing I could have done to save him, but my heart continually tells me, “if only you had done more, then he would still be here with you.”
I wish I could say that things got brighter: that his death made me stronger and that I have been able to use it for good. To a degree, I suppose those things did happen, but not enough to count as anything significant - not enough to counteract everything he could have done if he were still here. Why he was taken so early, I suppose I will never know. But for now, there is nothing I can do but continue living on.
Thomas Alan Broadwater, you are dearly missed and loved. 4 December 1991 - 8 June 2009
Don't rest in peace, worship in peace.
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