When Love Unfolds, Christ Shows Up

I have often felt inadequate about sharing my faith.

At some periods in my life I felt unsure of what I believed. Or at least not sure enough to express it verbally--without feeling like I was stumbling around stepping on my shoelaces.

Always, I feared sharing my faith. I feared pushing people away. People who may be put off by my faith. People who may have been hurt by other Christ-followers who were brash. People who look at the long history of Christian and religious violence and wonder how we can possibly say that our theology is one of love and forgiveness and grace. People who have been marginalized by society.

Who can blame them? I feel equally put off by how we as humans and we as Christians, historically, have failed to love and have compassion for each other.

But, I find that I am both awed and put off by the bold: Those who openly and passionately share their faith. Those who are candid about the singularity of Christ with people they hardly know. I am awed by those who are comfortable being in that place and who are comfortable having those conversations. Because of the bold, certainly, some non-believers have come to know Christ. And so, I cannot say that bold is wrong.

But, honestly, I am equally, and almost always, put off by the bold. I feel the air thicken and I go into panic mode, looking for the closest exit.

If I, as a believer, feel that way, then I imagine how many non-believers feel. A lack of compassion, or respect, or just a tinge of discomfort.

So, perhaps I shouldn't feel inadequate about sharing my faith. But, scripture--Christ--says that we are to "go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything [Christ has] commanded [us]." Matthew 28:18-20

How do I--how do we as Christians--square the fear of being off-putting with the command to "make disciples of all nations"?

Over the years, and especially over the last 23 years of being married to a non-believer, I have come to this conclusion: Telling all about the singularity of Christ needs to be squared with Christ's command to "love everyone."

And so, for me, loving others, unconditionally, has to come first. That means listening. Listening to what others believe or fear or hope. It is about showing my humanity and reflecting my faith through my love and compassion towards the people who I am fortunate to meet.

For me, it is also about finding common ground and loving others for who they are, what they believe, and where they are. When I listen well and seek common ground, I affirm for me--and hopefully for them--that we are all very much alike.

For me, it is when I focus on the differences that things fall apart rather than unfold.

I like the unfolding. I learn so much by listening to the hearts of others and watching the unfolding of the human experience of love and compassion and acceptance. And, in that unfolding, Christ shows up.

Letting Go, Keeping Faith, and Loving Unconditionally

I sat on the blue leather sofa, gas fireplace burning, as the first light of day broke through the darkness. The house was mine at this hour. Even the dog left me alone. Time with God. Quiet. Calm. Uninterrupted.

And so, I prayed, as I did so often recently, "Please God, cover him. Keep him safe. Help me to trust you." God knew that prayer was coming every day while my son was overseas last year, in a remote village, in a country that was giving him the experience of a lifetime.

For me, it was the first time that he had been that far away, without a group of friends or people we knew and trusted to look out for him. I trusted our son enough to let him go, but once he was gone, I had to learn to have faith that he would be okay.

There was nothing that I could do 7,500 miles away.

Despite one stint in the local "hospital," our son arrived home unharmed -- a little thinner, older, and wiser, but safe. God kept him safe and healthy. And, brought him home.

Today, my prayers in these early morning hours have shifted. Our son is across the country, no longer in a poverty stricken country. Instead, he is in the throes of urban-American-big-city life, grappling with his faith.

It is a familiar place. I grappled with my faith at his age, too. Questioning, doubting, not finding God relevant or consistent with the life I thought I wanted. Turning away as I lived a life that was less than what I knew was desirable. And, so, I have hope and faith that my son will grapple and fall back into the arms of a loving God.

As a mom, I have few details about my son's internal struggles. But the details don't matter. He needs to grapple with his faith, more so than he needed to go to Africa to grow into a young man.

I cannot tell him what faith is or should look like. He has known what faith is and who God is, but he needs it to be real and authentic for it to remain that way.

Rather, I need my son to know that it is okay--even good--that he is grappling with his faith. I need to let him know that I love him unconditionally. No matter what.

So, he seeks.

And so, I sit on the blue leather sofa, gas fireplace burning, as the first light of day breaks through the darkness. Time with God. Quiet. Calm. Uninterrupted. And, I pray, "God, cover him. Guard his heart. Reveal yourself to him. Pursue him."

God is faithful. I need to trust Him completely. Instead of asking God to bring our son home safely to us, I ask God to bring him home safely to Him.

God's hand. A man named Evan.

Two days ago, friends pulled a young man out of the rubble of a fallen marketplace building in Haiti. Given the recent earthquake that devastated the country, it was not unexpected, except, that it occurred 28 days after the quake.

28 days. No food. No human contact.

But hope. And, faith.

That young man's name was Evan Muncie.

I don't go around saying out loud things like "God is present," "God has his hand in things." Or other such statements. I think them and I feel them. But, I rarely share them.

I just can't resist it here. This young man's survival is a miracle. A wonder. God had to have his hand in things. I am certain.

Of course, the other side of things--the cynical side--is that God had his hand in all the devastation and suffering in Haiti, too. The poverty, the destruction, the death, the disease.

I know that God is present in all things. And, I wouldn't try to explain why there is pain, and poverty, and disease in the world. Why God just doesn't get rid of it all if he is all powerful. That is beyond knowing and beyond fully understanding.

But, despite those human sufferings, we have faith, hope, and love. And, I know, just from my own life experiences, that those three truly are powerful. And, that they spring forth with force during times of suffering.

While we could not prevent the earthquake, men and women -- of all faiths and backgrounds -- have stepped in to help the people of Haiti. We feel drawn to the people of Haiti. We have hope for her people. We have faith that perhaps, through this tragedy, we, as a world, can help Haiti rebuild and climb out of poverty and all that comes with that extreme poverty.

God reminds us--through the life of Evan Muncie--28 days later, that we need to keep our faith and hope and love for Haiti. God reminds us that his hand is in this all and that through Him all things are possible.