I know my lines.
Like a good actress, I have a set script memorized that can take a conversation from small talk to “Do you go to church?” in five minutes or less. I hand out invite cards. I faithfully wear my church logo t-shirt to the playground and grocery store. (I smile more on those days.)
Don’t get me wrong: I don’t mean that to sound insincere, at all. I am, quite possibly and verifiably, my church’s biggest fan.
You see, I’m a church planter’s wife and that’s just part of the deal. Or so I thought.
Part of my job is to make sure that people know about our church and then invite them … to our church, that is … I mean, you’ve read those statistics. Unless someone invites them, they aren’t coming, right?
I have a job to do. And over the past three years, I’ve gotten rather good at it.
I can answer all the standard questions. I know how our church is different from the other churches in town. I know the buzzwords—the answers people are looking for. I can even recite our mission statement. Cold.
And until this weekend, I thought that was OK. I actually believed it was part of my job to tell people about our church so that they could come and meet our Jesus.
My intentions were good. I knew if I could just get them to visit one Sunday morning, they’d hear my husband preach and their ears would be opened to the Gospel.
But, after meeting with friends who work with missionaries in regions of the world that are closed to all things Christian, the Holy Spirit convicted me of something. That is: I’m more comfortable telling people about my church than I am about my Savior.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’ll speak to groups of women about Jesus. I’ll blog about faith in Christ alone. I’ll shout from the social media mountain tops that Jesus is the answer.
But back in our small Texas town, in person, it’s a whole lot easier for me to smile at you and start a conversation where I tell you about my church and not about my Lord.
