“…Behold, a sower went forth to sow; And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side, and the fowls came and devoured them up: Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth: and forthwith they sprung up, because they had no deepness of earth: And when the sun was up, they were scorched; and because they had no root, they withered away. And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprung up, and choked them: But other fell into good ground, and brought forth fruit, some an hundredfold, some sixtyfold, some thirtyfold. Who hath ears to hear, let him hear” ( Matthew 13:3b-9).
She ranted and raved. She cussed and swore. She put down and she criticized until she was red in the face. She flinched. She spit. She sputtered. She named names and she extolled questionable behavior associated with them. She took a deep breath and began again…
She’d had enough of the church crowd. She’d endured all she could of religion and the religious. She’d reached her limit on hypocritical Jesus freaks. She was worn thin on the “thou shall not’s” of the church. She knew all about those church folks and she didn’t want any part of them. And, she said, if she were invited to another special service, she’d have to scream.
She was on a roll. Her voice quivered as she spoke of grandparents done wrong by the church down the road, and aunts and uncles who’d left because of a split in the church and never returned. She recounted each and every time she’d darkened the door of the church house, and had not been properly greeted by the pastor and his deacon committee. Then she mentioned, at a rather high volume, that one time she was even asked to pray in a Sunday School class she attended.
Now? Now she had stopped talking and looked at me as if she were waiting for a response from me.
My response? Me, the gal wearing the Christian t-shirt? The one holding a worn Bible under my arm? The one who has a Christian radio station blaring at my desk? She really wanted my response? Me? The Sunday School teacher? The one who was saved, baptized and already a church member by the age of 8? Me, the one who’d not strayed far from godly teachings—out of fear, respect and a deep love for the Lord and my parents? She really wanted to know what I had to say?
So I asked her, “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
Her hand went to her hip, her eyebrow arched and she leaned in to show an interest, but made no remark. I think I saw a flash of lightning in her eyes. She may have even dug her feet into the ground and prepared herself for another round of fire. Her face said, “This had better be good.”
Pointing to myself I said, “I am just like you.” Then looking her squarely in the eye I added, “I’m tired of it all, too.”
She listened.
I was able to speak of relationship not religion. I testified in everyday terms of freedom and not being tied down to rules. I explained my personal experience with amazing grace and miraculous mercy. I spoke highly of the privilege I’d been given to worship beside some very imperfect people, people just like me. I was excited as I spoke of the fact that I’ve not fully grasped profound truths, but I keep reaching for them and coming up with handfuls of faith.
And she listened.
Bible verses were never quoted. No tracts were exchanged. Translations nor dress codes were discussed. Doctrine? Not even mentioned. The Romans Road never came up in the conversation. The church I attended had a special service coming up, but I didn’t bring it up. Why, she never even asked my name.
But she listened.
Know what? Seeds were planted. Potential-filled, just-needing-the-warmth-of-the-Son seeds were planted.
Seeds? They’re the tiniest of things, aren’t they?
Malinda Edgell
Illinois
PRAY TOGETHER:Pray for WNAC leaders on all levels—national, state, district and local.
