Confession of a Contemptible Christian: Part 1: Action
One question was asked most of me as a child growing up in a Lutheran grade school, at a fundamental Bible church, with parents who were diligently raising their children with Christian values – where is your mission field?
For me the answer was always, the bus. I can even remember drawing a picture of the school bus as my mission field in crayon on that kindergarten ruled paper with the weird smell. I remember everything about that big yellow bus.
We lived a ways outside of the small town of my youth and this required an hour bus ride to and from school every day. As anyone who has shared that experience can tell you, you learn a lot about life from your bus cohorts in that environment. I spent more time with this same small group of people in that captive space than anywhere else. The bus really was and would be my “mission field” with all the meaning that phrase held to me.
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We lived at the very end of the route so my siblings and I were always on first each morning. Slowly the bus would begin to fill and everyone would take their seats in the appropriate age or social strata that bus culture demanded and strictly enforced.
A few stops down, at the end of Norwegian Rd, those big doors of the bus would swing open and more often than not on would step, Jesse. Everyone hated Jesse. He was by far one of the most obnoxious people I have ever met. Everything he did, the sound of his voice, the things he chose to say, somehow sparked even the most docile spirit to fits of rage. You could say he earned it – he was so abrasive you couldn’t help but think he deserved it. No one would sit with him, and when he wasn’t being ignored or antagonized he knew only mental and physical retaliation from the other kids. He took more than a few beatings.
Jesse deeply bothered me too. I’ll admit he got to me and made my blood boil as much as anyone. “What is that kid’s problem!?” would ring through my head. So, naturally, I thought, “Hey, he needs Jesus.” Thinking as I had been taught that if he knew Jesus then maybe he wouldn’t be such mess. “That’s it! I’ll witness to him!”
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I was 12 years old. At this point I was long steeped in formative Christian education, had a spiritual awareness/maturity at a very young age, was constantly challenging my teachers, and took my responsibility to share the Gospel in my mission field very seriously. I knew the words through and through. I remember always looking, waiting for that opening. Sharing the Gospel with Jesse would be my first chance to witness to someone. To make good on all I held to be true.
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One day I left my meager social stratum a few seats back from Jesse. I talked with him and asked him about what he believed. I began to share the story of Jesus with him (even invited a peer from my class to sit in as I believed there should be a second witness when possible) and told him with precision what he needed to do to be “saved.” I talked about what a prayer to God would look like and asked him if he wanted to pray with me. He said he did.
We pressed our heads into the back of those green vinyl bus seats and stared at the rubbery bus floor as I prayed a “first prayer” with and for Jesse. He then prayed his own short prayer of acceptance at the end. I can still remember the smell of the seats and the floor; I can remember everything about that bus.
I said something along the lines of “How do you feel?” He replied to the effect of “good, thanks.”
Ok then. There it is. Dunzo. Back to my seat. This stuff works. One for one in Gospel sharing. Go Jesus.
The bus ride was far from over. At some point I went back to my place and rejoined life in my social stratum. Suddenly, it was time for Jesse’s stop.
“Hey, Brian!” He yelled. “Remember all that stuff we talked about?” “I had my fingers crossed the whole time; I didn’t mean any of it!” “Ha-Ha, loser!” And off he went.
“Aggh!” “What is that kid’s problem!?” “How dare him.” I was so angry. I should have been more disappointed. Mostly, I was disgusted with him. I just shrugged him off and returned to whatever I was doing.
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Jesse didn’t always ride the bus, getting a ride from his Dad when he could. Some time had passed before I saw him again. Then one day he was back. I ignored him.
“Hey, Brian!” Came the yell of that obnoxious voice again. “Remember that talk we had?” “I’d like to have it again, sorry about before, I am ready now.” I just knew he was being insincere, that he just wanted to dupe me again for the attention. It was obvious. My pride was triggered. I would not be played.
Now, I may not remember every detail of what happened perfectly, but I will never forget what happened next. I can still see the scene vividly – already standing, I looked up from my seat, looking through the rows, past our peers and into his eyes, then I yelled back these words…
“Nope, you had your chance, you blew it, it’s too late now, tough.” I sat back down.
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Those were the last words I ever said to Jesse. I never saw him again. He didn’t always ride the bus. We all heard a few weeks later that Jesse had committed suicide in his home. Jesse was just a lost kid who was enduring more pain and rejection than he could handle alone. He killed himself and wasn’t even 12 years old.
I spent a lot of years staring out that bus window; switching back and forth from focusing on the countryside and my own reflection. Each day the bus halted at the stop sign at the end of Norwegian Rd. and there, with Jesse’s house as the backdrop, my own reflection in that bus window became hauntingly clear. Every day.
My innocence was gone. I was not innocent.
(It should have been a story like this, but wasn’t)
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I told him it was too late. I was just a kid myself, but I knew what I said. I knew how wrong it was then. I was not willing to let him reject the Gospel and love him anyway.
I was willing to say the words I was taught, yet, I was not willing to be his friend. I was not willing to be his brother. I was not willing to stand in the breach for his sake, to stand by his side, to sit in his seat, to take his beatings, to bear his burdens. Because I was so unwilling to follow Jesus, I had no right to sharing any words with him, and whatever I did share was no Gospel. The Good News is words chased by action representative of a new reality. The “witness” Jesse needed was not words but acceptance. It does not matter if Jesse only planned to fool me again – I did not enter into his life or welcome him into mine. I wanted to “get” Jesse saved, but I did nothing to save him.
Of course, it is never too late. God has not and will not give up on any of us! Not on you, or on me, and we have no right to give up on anyone or give up in any way.
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My first step out, my big beginning…is there a more dreadful way to fail Jesus, betray the Gospel, and deny what it means to be a Christian? I can not think of one.
You see, for me, most of the “don’ts” have been on lock-down my entire life. I’ve never struggled with the usual suspects that we so often associate with “being Christian” – sexual immorality, drunkenness, etc. (Rom 13:13, Gal 5:19-20). I’ve found those “temptations” to be easily avoided or disciplined away. I’ve been strong at keeping my tongue tamed (James 1:26, James 3:2). No one has ever heard me so much as swear in public (and only one person ever has in private). My relationships have always been on point and by all accounts I’ve been a “good” man.
I’ve unwaveringly represented myself as a believer to my peers and I’ve been looked to as a “mature” Christian for as long as I can remember. I’ve stood up for my faith and for others at every turn. When it comes to Bible knowledge and theological expertise I have consistently been top of the class.
Faithfulness in those matters of personal piety – I count them as nothing – they fall as pointless, worthless, and incomparable to the ways I have failed in what it truly looks like to follow Jesus and the atrocity I committed against His Kingdom.
“Nope, you had your chance, you blew it, it’s too late now, tough.”
This is how I learned what the Gospel is and what it really means to be a follower of Jesus. This is my confession of a contemptible Christian.
