Last year, I was at a birthday party, sitting with a group of “can’t-dance” friends, discussing our incompetence. Instead of just moving with the music, we would think about what our bodies were doing, or not doing, making carefree dance impossible. We had learned how not to dance. If we wanted to dance — naturally, unselfconsciously, without set steps — we had some unlearning to do.
A Time for Everything
Later, I was reflecting on some verses from a book, and from a song, about how there is “a time for everything.” I noticed, there, a time to dance.
No doubt the wedding where Jesus turned water into wine — his first recorded miracle — was one such time.
Jesus, who also told his friends, when they shooed some kids away, to let the little children come to him. Jesus, who cared less about appearances than the heart.
As an adult, I have come to speak of him with too much caution, and too little passion. Just as I’ve learned to hear a catchy song, and barely move at all. It makes me wonder: What else would I do well to unlearn?
One problem with Christianity, if you want nothing to do with it, is how inclusive it is. It doesn’t matter what ethnicity you are, what language you speak, what upbringing you had, or even how you’ve lived your life, its message is that people in all places, of all backgrounds and races, can be “born a second time” — “adopted in.”
Yes, Jesus claims to be “The Way,” the only way, to God, which sounds pretty exclusive, if not offensive. Yes, he came “first for the Jews,” but his invitation — “follow me” — was always going to extend to people from every tribe, nation, tongue, gender, and class. “For God so loved” not only Israel, but “the world.”
If this news is true and universal, glorious and good, why don’t I “sing” of it openly, joyfully, fearlessly, at every chance I get? If I have been convinced that Jesus is the light of this dark world—our best, our only, hope—why wouldn’t I press a different Christian book into each unbelieving friend’s hands every time we meet? Why wouldn’t I invite everyone I know to read the Bible, or hear it preached, or both? Why would I be slow to extend an invitation, or quick to take no for an answer?
Why do I keep quiet? Why do I hesitate? I don’t blame you if you ask me why; I ask myself.
The Risks Feel Significant
One answer is that because it’s no secret I’m a Christian — I have at least made sure of that — I figure friends can question me. And I figure that, if curious, they will. I don’t want to make them feel challenged or confronted, awkward or uncomfortable; I don’t want to put anyone off. Why not just let them come to me?
Another explanation — or excuse — is distraction. It’s often coupled with procrastination: I let myself behave as if what is seen matters more than what is unseen, as if the present matters more than eternity.
I also don’t want to be misunderstood. I know some think “religious” people are either brainwashed or deluded, or that “converting” as many free-thinkers as they can is their motive and their aim. I shudder to think anyone I love would think I think this way, but what if they did? It’s safest not to take the risk.
Besides, I don’t believe I have the power to “convert” a single soul; that work is God’s. He could reach anyone I know in any number of ways that don’t require me. I could do nothing at all; or pray but utter not a word; God could still save.
Why I should speak
That’s the good news: I’m not needed.
Still, when given opportunities, I should speak. Not to earn God’s favor, but because God favored and forgave and rescued me. I should speak because the scriptures are beautiful and true, because I want to share the comfort and hope their story offers to this world, at every chance I get. I should speak out of compassion, and gratitude, and love, excitement, joy. I should speak the way that carefree children, hearing music, dance.
I should ask questions and listen, too. I should be wary of making assumptions, let alone trusting them. Skeptics might be more interested, open, understanding, and respectful — less cynical, less judgmental — than I dare imagine.
If you’re not a believer, bear with us, I beg. Christians are sinful, Christians struggle, Christians doubt. But whether we manage to speak or not, whether we do it well or woefully, we do want you to know of God’s great love.
If the Christians you know don’t seem intent on convincing you God’s real, it doesn’t mean they don’t want to. They’re likely praying for you, hoping that somehow, in some way, they can be a light to you. If you’re interested and show it, I’m sure they’ll positively glow.
Ask them how they came to believe. Ask them how believing changed their life. It’s possible their answer will change yours.
