Our pastor tells of an unreached people group. The Malay, I believe. He talks about how they don’t know Jesus and maybe someone in our midst would be called to go. I look down and shift in my seat. I don’t want it to be me.
I remember hearing my old pastor speak in a broken voice, tears in his eyes, hand covering his heart, “There are roads to these places! And they don’t know Jesus, because no one’s cared to take it to them.”
There are roads! There are roads!
I’m comfortable in my life. What I do, most days, is easy. I take care of my family and enjoy my creative pursuits. And even though, as our season has changed and I’ve lost some of my conveniences, I’m comfortable.
We talk at community group about gospel-centered discipleship. We talk about how evangelism is a natural extension of discipleship. It isn’t a “have to,” something to be marked off the “I’m a Good Christian” checklist, but an outpouring of one who has been set free.
And I’m silent.
Someone quotes atheist Penn Jillette,
How much do you have to hate somebody to not proselytize? How much do you have to hate someone to believe that everlasting life is possible and not tell them that?
I don’t want to be hated. I don’t want the ridicule. That’s why I stay silent.
This morning my husband mentions our goal of getting involved in the community, how it hasn’t really happened yet, and asks what can we do to change that.
“Umm…” I want to avoid the conversation.
I’m a failure at making conversation and getting to know people. I may be on the narrow path, but sometimes I stray to the broader way. I like easy.
I want to be someone different. I really do.
But it’s not easy.
My heart breaks at the stories and brokenness of sex trafficking, at a culture that thinks it’s okay to buy and sell sex–prostitution, porn, trafficking, clothes, media…all of it. I ask how can you change such a culture?
I just want to cry and scream and ask, “How?”
How can people say this is okay? How can people know this exists and do nothing. How?
I sit at my computer and type, eagerly looking forward to a bowl of ice cream. My littlest boy sits on my lap tickling my face and giving me wide, open-mouthed kisses. His laughter is infectious joy. I hope he knows this joy always.
I’m overwhelmed at the suffering. I’m overwhelmed at the need for freedom. And, worst, I’m overwhelmed by the task of emancipation.
I ask myself, “How?” I don’t even know where to start.
My heart is scared of change. I’ve believed the lie of comfortable and convenient.
I struggle for the next words, because I don’t know…
Today there’s no tidy conclusion, no epiphany. Just a heart heavy with knowing and a will struggling to change.