That's my official job title, you know? Summer missionary. But I haven't been doing a very good job.
To be perfectly honest, these past few weeks I've developed a bit of a bad attitude towards missions. Or maybe not so much towards missions, but towards other missionaries. See, I've grown up in The Ministry. I've been going on mission trips since before I was a whole year old. And some time, in all those years, I've determined that I am the most experienced, that I am the one who does things right. And honestly, I've begun to scoff at the others who mission-ize differently than I.
I told you I was terrible.
I've realized over the years that, while every mission team is unique, certain characters consistently reoccur. You know them. They go to your church, too.
There's the kid who is way too excited to make snow-cones. The mom who wants to makes sure everything is done correctly and safely. There's the youth pastor who tries so desperately to be "cool" and "relatable." The woman who cries every time she opens her mouth to share and the man who brought along a whole fanny-pack full of tracts. There's the person who just won't shut up about how "on fire" they are, or how much they "LOVE JESUS!" And don't forget the little old lady who doesn't quite like walking so much in the heat, but wants to warn the entire city about the warmth of hell.
You see them. You know them. And you love them. But every now and then, you roll your eyes and snicker at them.
At least I do.
This summer I got into the nasty habit of inwardly eye rolling and snickering far too frequently. In fact, I began to discount the worth and effectiveness of my Mission Trip Stereotypes.
Until last night.
Last night, I rode with a team leader, a fellow summer missionary, and three older ladies: two above the age of 70 and one teetering on the downhill slope of middle age. We drove to houses of previous block party attendees to give them information on our church. As we went house to house, the three ladies were the designated door-to-door goers. After they got back in the car, we would ask how it went. I would cringe every time one of them told how she had asked, "Do you know if you'll go to heaven?" "Stop it," I thought, "we're not here to evangelize on doorsteps. Just smile, drop off the material, and be on your way."
I know, I know. I'm terrible.
After we went to several houses, we had one bag left. We drove to the nearest address, and the middle-aged woman got out to deliver the materials. I promptly pulled out my phone and began playing Candy Crush as we waited on her to finish. She was gone for a good while, until she stepped out on the stoop of the apartment with another woman. The two of them talked for quite some time on the doorstep. The ladies in the car kept commenting on what could be happening. I kept playing my game. Then one of the ladies in the car noticed, "Oh, she's crying!" I glanced up to see the woman wiping tears from her eyes and nodding as our team member continued to speak. "Maybe she's going to accept Christ!", one of our ladies exclaimed, "We should be praying!" My first response: inward scoff and return to saving the Easter Bunny.
Then I froze.
WHAT?!
What did I just do?! I rolled my eyes at the possibility of a woman becoming a Christian? How had I gotten to this point? How had I become so calloused and prideful that I discounted any attempts at evangelism that differed from my own?
I put away my phone and began to pray for the two women outside. We watched as our team member wrapped her arms around the woman, and the two bent their heads together in an obvious display of prayer. When our team member returned to the car, the other ladies burst out, "Did she accept Christ?!" She softly replied, "Yes." The two little ladies squealed with joy.
I couldn't help the tears welling in my eyes as I watched their excitement and listened to the woman relate the experience. For far too long, I've missed it. I've missed the motivation beneath every stereotype I see. In that moment, I saw past the corny tracts and the eager evangelistic tactics.I saw past the cheesy Christian one-liners and the over-zealous, over-excited teams. Past the failed attempts at relatability and motivation. I saw past all I had mocked and scoffed and discounted, and I saw what I had so long missed. I saw their hearts. Hearts that love Jesus more than anything. Hearts that so desperately want others to know God's love, that they'll use any method they know. Hearts that are excited to serve. Hearts that so passionately want to make a difference.
I may not agree with some of their methods or fully admire some of their personalities, but honestly, many of these people whom I have worked with have been far better missionaries than I. They've had more boldness and passion and urgency for the Gospel. They've fulfilled their Commission to the best of their ability. I've simply completed my tasks and allowed myself to become used to the Gospel. I've forgotten the imperativeness of its spreading.
I only have a few weeks left here in the beautiful Black Hills of South Dakota. In a few weeks, my job title will change, and I'll no longer officially be a "missionary." But that doesn't alter my responsibility. Because, let's be honest, we're all called to be missionaries, whether or not it's a full time, paycheck kind of gig.
I pray that God renews my passion and urgency. I pray that He gives me the motivation that I've seen in all of these "non-missionaries" I've worked with this summer. I pray that I may have the gumption and fervor to fulfill my Commission in the same way I've seen this summer.
I'm sorry that I've been a bad missionary, but I can promise you I'm going to do better.
No comments:
Post a Comment