A year ago, I was on a plane, reading the Bible while the guy next to me read some secular book about religion. I was on my way back from volunteering with a missions organization, I was totally "on fire" for God, so I did what was natural: I sat there hoping the guy would be interested in this real life example of religion and ask me about my faith. Then we would have one of those awesome pastor-on-a-plane conversations where he confesses atheistic confusion and starts on his way to Christianity.
Turns out, he didn't care.
Who knows what would have actually happened if I'd spoken up, but I've long puzzled over how people have those drop-of-a-hat deeper-than-life conversations, and I regret missing the opportunity for one. So fast forward last week, and you'll understand why I was excited when it seemed God was giving me a second chance.
I was visiting a business so I could write an online listing for them, and the home theater system the owner wanted to show me wouldn't work. We talked while we waited for it to reboot, and he decided I was a thinker when I told about my fascination with the Holocaust. In response, he decided to tell me his thoughts about death.
Yeah. When does that happen?
After he told me he believes in God and that we go to heaven if we're good, we talked about death, missionaries and whether my beliefs were just happenstance. The whole time, I thought, "I can't believe I'm having this conversation right now!(!!!)" And maybe my inability to get over that reality is why, the entire time, I never said anything truly compelling.
For the rest of the day, I thought about the responses I should have given, until I found myself, sitting in a parking lot, yelling at my windshield, "Who cares, Harold?! Who cares if you hope God has a family and that good people go to heaven? Who cares if it's not true?" All week, I've been wishing I had asked that very question, thinking about the business card he gave me, and wondering if I should call him or visit again.
It is beyond frustrating to be so close to really explaining the Gospel and then... not. To know all kinds of apologetic arguments and to not have used one. But for what it's worth, I learned something, even if Howard didn't.
See, 1 Peter 3:15 tells us to always be ready to give a defense for the hope in us, and I've always looked at that from an intellectual perspective. So I study, I take classes, and I discuss the issues with my friends and family. But maybe that's not enough.
Maybe I've become like a coach, who knows what plays to announce and how to build up other people's skills, but my own muscles have atrophied. Because I don't speak up when I see someone on a plane, reading about my faith. Because I don't speak up... ever. I sit around, praying that God will give me an opportunity to share what I've learned, but when the big moment comes, I ruin it with my own lack of practice.
It's a scary realization, because it means becoming more like those people who walk up and witness to others all the time, and that will mean a lot, lot, lot more failure (because I have no idea how people do that). But if my choices are failing a lot or always failing, making a small difference or not making one at all, I have to choose the former. And maybe, before I know it, I'll have a few airplane illustrations to give after all.
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