We were late for a dinner engagement, and my wife, as usual, was already in the car, with the engine and air-conditioning running. (She is remarkably faster than I at getting into a car; I'm remarkably faster than her getting out.) I made it as far as the car door before realizing I’d forgotten my phone, and turned and headed back through the garage fore to fetch it.
After that, things went a little blank and blurry for a minute. My wife, busy with texts and Wordle, saw me, peripherally, loom up by the car and casually pushed the switch to lower the garage door – which came down with a swift thud on the exact top of my head.
This has happened twice now in the last six months, and the experience is not improving with age. I found myself face down in the garage, and slowly rolled over to see a double-image of my beloved’s pretty face, squinting through the windshield into the shadows of the garage, trying to figure out where I’d gotten to.
While I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt that both instances were unintentional, we are having some animated discussions these days on the subject of being more aware of one’s surroundings and not jumping to conclusions. (She thinks I should be more attuned to the quiet hum of the garage door coming down; I think she should be more mindful of where I’m standing in relation to moving objects.)
Meanwhile, my skull has been jarred on the subject of … hard knocks.
We were sitting in the first booth in the row, with our backs to the rest of the restaurant. Our dinner companion, looking toward the booth behind us, idly observed: “He’s wearing a Trump hat.”
Nothing especially newsworthy there, but somehow, the comment prompted my wife to turn and look at this sight, and in doing so, make eye contact with the man in the MAGA chapeau.
“Like your hat,” she said cheerfully, smiling her brightest sorriso.
He smiled right back, as did his two companions – one man and one woman, all about our age, all eagerly responding with excited, friendly tones and a strong Latin American accent. As it turned out, they were recent immigrés: one from Venezuela, one from Colombia, and one from Nicaragua. These days, they’re all living in Michigan, they said; legal immigrants who’d ventured to the great Southwest on a mission trip of sorts … the mission being to recruit voters for Mr. Trump.
They were doing it the old-fashioned way – knocking, door-to-door – and were not unpleased with their success so far. People had been unusually gracious, receptive … perhaps even persuaded, they said. Most likely, I suspect, by the enthusiasm of people who would venture cross-country, even cross-hemisphere, to the desert, in late summer, to contend for their chosen candidate.
The three said they were with a group called “Immigrants for Trump,” canvassing the country to encourage support for one whom many might assume is the chief opponent of all immigrants, everywhere. Indeed, of all goodness, everywhere, to hear most of the media tell it.
And yet, these people believe in him / his policies enough to make remarkable sacrifices of time and distance and perspiration, to try and convince strangers in a strange land to vote for their chosen candidate. (Flip that: would I travel to Argentina to go door-to-door, asking people to vote for … whoever the underdog is in Argentina, these days? Would I walk two doors down, in America?)
Professional politicos insist nothing turns out voters and influences votes like door-to-door, person-to-person efforts like this; they also note that even enthusiastic party stalwarts are losing their enthusiasm for this approach. Why?
Maybe for the same reason churches have.
"Behold, I stand at the door and knock," Jesus says. Perhaps not coincidentally, for two thousand years, the most effective way to reach lost souls has been to physically seek them out: to knock on a door and offer a warm and gracious presentation of love and the truth. To contact people who’ve visited our churches, and ask why they came. Answer their questions. Let them know we think they’re important … that we’re glad they visited us … that we know a Savior they might want to meet.
People make light of the Mormons, and roll their eyes at Jehovah’s Witnesses. But all over the world, those cults keep coming. And making converts, one by one, to their beliefs.
Evangelicals, though, don’t much do this, anymore. It’s “old school.” Makes people nervous. They won’t answer the door. Won’t be friendly, if they do. Won’t feel safe, talking to strangers. Won’t even appreciate the effort. So: why go? Who knows what’s on the other side of that door?
It’s those poor lost souls we’re thinking of, understand – not how shy or intimidated we feel. Not how lazy we’ve become. Not how little we really care, maybe, whether anyone visits our church or not, as long as old friends are still there, and the donuts are fresh and the coffee warm.
So, evangelicals gave up on visitation about 15-20 years ago – about the time we gave up on Sunday night church and mid-week prayer services. Soon after, we gave up on altar calls. Then prayer rooms. Then our pastors stopping preaching about sin and salvation, and turned to spiritual TED talks on how to be nice and non-confrontational, and avoid awkward words, like “repent.”
Perhaps none of those things are really important. Maybe seeing lost souls find Christ isn't, either. The important thing is, God loves us. Won’t let anything happen to us. Wants us to be happy and pleasant, and confident He’ll come and fetch us, before anything really bad starts to happen. Sure feels good to be a Christian, in America.
Of course, being so conspicuously silent ... we can only hope Jesus didn’t mean what He said about – well, about a lot of things, really, but especially that part about “whoever denies Me before men, him I will also deny before My Father who is in heaven.”
I’m not denying Him, understand … but there has to be some way to take up that cross and follow Him without ... getting dirty. Straining myself. Offending anybody. Or leaving the house.
And yet ... here they were: the folks in the restaurant. People who would leave their country to be more free. Then leave their new home and hit the road, to encourage others to take a part in that freedom.
We’d barely begun to hear their story when our food came, and their bill. We shook hands all around, and told them we’d pray for them. We have. They were charming, gracious people, with the light of life and joy in their eyes.
People with a purpose – with a place to go, and something to do – often look that way, have you noticed? And more often than not, get what they’re going for.
It’s the people who aren’t ready to leave home that get clobbered.
It seems that those who have experienced repression appreciate freedom more than do we, who don't realize that free cheese might not be such a good deal.