Stuff Christians Like (14 page)
Have you ever met someone who didn’t want to give money to the church or a charity until they had a cheerful heart? They waited until they were cheerful enough to throw their tithe in? I have, and that person’s name is “me.”
I know that’s dumb, but I used to lie to myself, saying things like, “I don’t want to fake my tithe. It says it right there in the Bible, God wants a cheerful giver. What, are you telling me to go against God’s Holy Word? No, it’s not evident in my life that I’m following many of God’s other holy precepts, but
this
…this is one I’m passionate about.”
That’s ridiculous logic, but the thing that’s even crazier is the idea that we can measure cheerfulness. If you’re waiting until you’re cheerful enough, what sorts of measurements are you taking? I’m assuming you’re recording the data in either rainbows or sunshines, but how many sunshines are we talking about until you can give money to God?
What’s your criteria? Mine is the degree to which a person is smiling. That’s how I quantify cheerfulness. Here’s what it looks like:
If you’ve got a huge frown on your face like an open umbrella, and emo music is considered cotton-candy-happy compared to you, then you probably shouldn’t give that Sunday. You’re not ready. Use your money instead to buy an apology card for the owner of the puppy you kicked on the way to church.
You are a stoic fortress of solitude. No one can discern your feelings. Are you deeply happy? Are you in the throes of some great personal tragedy? No one can tell because your face is so flat and expressionless. But maybe, just maybe, there’s some small degree of cheerfulness brewing beneath that cold exterior. Feel free to throw some coins in the offering basket. Not quarters. You’re not ready for quarters. Let’s not get crazy, but put in as many dimes as you can fit in your pocket without looking like you have a sock full of coins you’re going to hit someone with like Charles Bronson. Your face is so hard to read, I don’t want to put anything past you.
That’s a smile, sort of. You’re doing that sarcastic grin that people like me do in photos. You’re too cool to flat-out smile, but you don’t want to look like some super serious guy who takes himself all serious all the serious time, so you went middle of the road. It’s almost as if you’re laughing at an ironic joke you heard about an ironic T-shirt from a guy wearing an ironic winter hat in the middle of July. That’s borderline happy, my friend. Feel free to throw some actual paper money in. You’ve reached dollar-bill cheerfulness.
I didn’t think it was going to happen this quickly, but based on the huge I-don’t-care-what-anyone-else-thinks, life-is-wonderful smile you’ve got going on, I would say you’re officially ready to give. And I don’t just mean coins or a few dollars. I’m talking about real giving, in envelopes. Honest-to-goodness envelopes that have your name printed on them so that everyone around you can see how cheerful you are. Because they don’t just give envelopes to anyone. There’s an application process and a cheerfulness test that’s very similar to this one, although it
involves breathing into a tube, but it’s a licorice tube so it ends up being pretty nice.
What does it mean when your house painter has a Jesus fish on his business card? Should I think that means he’s going to be really trustworthy? Or maybe detailed and passionate about his work? Is there some scene in the Bible where Jesus does a really good job painting someone’s two-story great room? Because that’s what I’m looking for right now—just a normal painter who has workers who don’t have prison tats officially indicating that they’ve killed someone. Is that what the cross on the side of his painting van means? Very little chance of getting murdered during the course of the project? So many questions, so few answers.
Some of my favorite businesses are Christian, but they tell you that through their actions, not their business cards. The worst time I ever got ripped off was by a super loud, formerly church-employed Christian. Whenever someone tries to validate someone’s quality simply by saying, “He’ll do a great job. He’s a Christian,” my first thought is, “I am so screwed.”
I love when people thank me for doing something I haven’t done yet. They’ll send me an email, ask me to work on a project, and then end the message by saying, “Thanks in advance for your cooperation.”
Ohh, that is tricky. That bold move is designed to force my hand, to make me sit there and think, “Well they already thanked me for doing it. I suppose I should in fact do it.”
Even better though is when there is a condition of speed applied to the request. “Thank you for doing this so quickly,” or, “I really appreciate your quick turnaround.” That’s two levels of trickery. Not only have I not agreed to do it, but I certainly haven’t agreed to do it quickly. If you want to add a third level, get God into the mix and tell someone, “Thank you for serving the kingdom of God with your talents.” That’s church talk for, “We’re not going to pay you any money for that thing we need you to do, but we are going to thank you in a way that makes it next to impossible to say no. What, you don’t want to serve the kingdom of God?”
That’s pretty ridiculous, but sometimes I do the same thing. Instead of asking God for his guidance or praying about where/ what/how he would have me move through a situation, I throw him a little advance appreciation.
“God, thank you for blessing this book. Thank you for allowing me to sell more copies than
The Shack.
Thank you for allowing me to become the first Christian author to ever host
Saturday Night Live.
Thank you for all of that.”
I’ve never found what I thought was a ten dollar bill on the ground but was actually a tract disguised as a ten dollar bill and thought to myself, “Phew, I thought that was going to be free money. Let’s see what this tricky but potentially life changing piece of paper has to say today.”
Hi, how are you? Do you mind if I ask you a question?
Do you like pizza, soda, and allowing the blood of Jesus to purify you of all your sins?
What? What did I say? You don’t like pizza?
That’s what the sweaty minister from the singing group my pastor father brought to town one year should have said in the middle of their bait and switch event.
Sure, the ACLU would have still been called. Sure, the local newspaper would have still crucified my old man. Sure, the hundreds of kids that heard the singing group perform Beach
Boy songs during assemblies at public schools would have still been surprised when the doors at the Friday night event were closed with guards that discouraged them from leaving until the altar call was over.
All of those things might have still happened even if the minister had been up front with us, but at least we would have known that “Pizza Blast” might not be the best name for the event. Looking back at what shotgunned from that stage once the Kokomo gloves were off, I have to think that “Jesus Blast” might have been a more appropriate name.
I don’t know what “enough” is, but I know I haven’t reached it. I don’t have any numbers to support this theory; rarely do my friends and I sit around and count the people we’ve led to Christ. But in my head, I imagine every other Christian on the planet being wildly more successful at converting people than I am. They’ve led both sales teams at work to the Lord, witnessed to three of the four cul-de-sacs in their neighborhood, and left a trail of believers at every fast food drive-thru they’ve ever ordered at. And me, I could count the people I’ve converted on one hand.
I have a plan though. I have a “Hail Mary” pass I’ll throw that will balance everything out. It’s kind of a secret though, so lean in close for this next part…I’m going to convert a celebrity.
I know, I know, it’s brilliant, right?
Celebrities count more right now in society than normal people, and that’s kind of true in Christian circles too. How many times have you had a conversation with friends and someone will say, “Can you imagine what it would be like if Kid Rock became a Christian? Wow, imagine what that would do for God’s kingdom if that happened.” Sure God’s probably
thinking, “Kid Rock? Oh you mean, Robert James Ritchie? I love him. Bring him along and his next-door neighbor Mike Smith too. Both of those guys are really important to me.” But regardless of the heaven technicalities, I’m still going to focus exclusively on converting the already famous.
I’ll just lay low until I finally have access to Kid Rock, and then when I get to heaven God will say, “I know the great commission says everyone; it says ‘all nations,’ but Kid Rock is pretty dope. So we’ll call it even. Get in here, you.”
One of our favorite things to do during an altar call is to wait for “One More Person.” Here’s what a minister usually says at about minute seven of the altar call:
“Thank you for heeding the Lord’s call this morning. We’re going to play one more chorus of ‘I Could Sing of Your Love Forever,’ and then we’re going to end the service. But there’s one more person that needs to come down today. One more person waiting for the right moment. Today is it, friend. Right now is your chance. Come home. We’ll wait for you.”
Every time I experience this phenomenon, I think the same three things:
- What if the “One More Person” is actually the same jerk in every church? What if it’s some dude who hates God so much that he goes around to a bunch of churches just to set off the minister’s “spidey sense” and then refuses to come down?
- Is it wrong to be a little antsy? Have you ever been hungry for lunch and looked around the crowd when you’re supposed to have your eyes closed and thought, “Come on, ‘One More Person,’ let’s do this thing. It’s noon already!”
- Would I probably have a fast pass to hell if not for the grace of God because I’m prioritizing lunch over someone’s salvation?
In my defense, and perhaps yours too, I didn’t set my alarm early to get to work before my colleague did so that I could leave that sermon CD series on his desk. Sure I see him every day and we have email conversations, IM chats, phone calls, and meetings. Sure, I could have placed the sermon series directly in his hand during any of the dozens of interactions we have each week. So then why the cloak and dagger move when I decided he might like to hear a sermon I got from my church?
I was afraid if I did it in person he would pull an “instant return to sender.”
I’d hand it to him, he’d take one look at it, realize someone is asking him to recreationally, voluntarily listen to a sermon outside of church, just for fun, and then he’d say, “Yeah, no thanks. Here you go.”
Then I’d be left standing there with the CD in my hand, feeling like God just got shot blocked, and trying to find a good segue out of that awkward moment. “Sooo, Atlanta traffic? What’s that all about? Crazy, right, what with the whole Beep! Beep! and the Vroooommmm! Anyway, I gotta go.”
So instead I opted for the secret drop off when I knew he wouldn’t be at work yet. Another great move is to IM a co-worker, ask if he’s at his desk, confirm that he’s not, write the “Sorry I missed you at your desk” Post-It note ahead of time in your cubicle so that you don’t waste time at the scene of the drop, and then sprint back to your desk. That move works too.
Of course now it’s been a few months since I did the drop off and neither one of us has mentioned the CD. Every time I visit his cubicle for a work-related issue, I see it sitting in the corner of his desk, Post-It note still attached, mocking me.
It’s about being bold for the Lord really.
A surefire way to tell that you’re bombing miserably as a Christian is when a friend or co-worker responds to something godly you said with this line:
“Oh, I didn’t know that faith was such a big part of your life.”
If you don’t feel like a completely sweaty heathen at that point, then you missed what they’re saying. Let me translate for you. Your friend just said:
“Wow, that godly thing you said comes as a complete surprise to me. Everything about your life screams, ‘I don’t care about God or faith or church or donating money and blankets to orphans.’ I assumed, based on our extensive history together as friends, that you were as undecided on the whole God thing as I am. I would have never guessed you were big-time into faith or Jesus or whatever it is you’re into. Completely blew me away. So…how long have you had this hobby?”
Do I love the
Family Guy
television cartoon or the new Lil Wayne album? No. But what can I do? Christianity needs to be more relevant. How are we going to change today’s generation if we don’t understand them? How can I witness to someone about the love of Christ if I can’t hang in a conversation about
Family Guy
?
Seriously, what if I’m in the middle of walking someone through the gospel and they say, “That redeeming blood of Jesus thing you’re talking about is interesting, but let me ask you something. Who’s your favorite character on
Family Guy
?” and I can’t instantly answer, “Glen Quagmire”? The whole conversation would break down right there. I’d look out of touch, probably seem a little like a Bible-thumpin’ fundamentalist, and God would lose his chance to reach one more person. Is that what you want? You want heaven all to yourself? You’re so selfish.
Don’t judge my choices. I’m doing this for us. For all of Christianity. I’m going to make us more relevant one episode of
Family Guy
at a time until hopefully, bit by bit, people will start to see
that we’re not the “I” word. You know which “I” word I mean—the one that for modern Christians is like garlic for a vampire: “Irrelevant.” Even saying it out loud makes me feel a little dirty.
I wasn’t given a single tract or “Here’s-why-you-should-love-Jesus” booklet in my neighborhood last year during Halloween. Living in Georgia, the Bible Belt, I expected at least one. I thought that surely when my daughters dumped out their massive bags of candy on the floor, we’d see one floating in the sea of sweets. We didn’t, and I accept the blame. Clearly I’ve done a poor job converting my neighborhood.
I didn’t give one out, either. But I did receive a Halloween tract once in Blowing Rock, North Carolina, and I have to tell you, it was perfectly executed. How can I say that? Because whoever gave it to me followed the simple rules of Halloween Tract Distribution:
There are a million types of tracts to choose from. If you’re going to give one out at Halloween, make sure it’s appropriately themed. The one we got on Halloween was about little kids dressing up as ghosts. Had it been about Easter or just a general “Think-Hell-will-be-hot-enough-for-you?” tract, I would have thrown it away instantly. So make sure you stay on theme.
A tract should never travel alone. It should always ride shotgun in a bag with a piece of candy. Otherwise, it’s going to be mistaken for a Wendy’s fast food coupon for a free drink if you purchase a hamburger or some other such nonsense.
You think God wants to travel around in a bag with “M&N’s,” off-brand M&M’s, or those generic black and orange taffies Walmart sells by the gross during Halloween? Doubtful. Make sure you throw your tract in with a Twix or Skittles. Or even better, both. You’re always thinking about how to add excellence to your worship service—well, apply that same logic here. That tract had better be surrounded by fantastical candy.
These tips are critical, and I applaud that stranger in Blowing Rock for executing them so flawlessly. Not only did we eat delicious candy when we opened the tract bag, but the tract was well themed. I read the whole thing, and my daughter even colored it with crayons. That’s a home run in tract land if ever there was one. (Granted, a deep, lasting relationship with Jesus
is really a tract grand slam, but I’m already down with the King, so the best they were getting from me was a home run.)
But there’s one tip more important than all of those that you need to remember when it comes to proper Halloween tract distribution:
The moment you give one out, you become the Christian in your neighborhood.
If you weren’t known for that before, you are now. If you enjoyed a life of anonymity prior to that, where you could be a jerk and people would just think, “Wow, that guy’s a jerk!” those days are over.
Now, when you put three different handwritten complaints in the mailbox of the widow across the street because her dog uses the bathroom in your yard, she’ll think, “Wow, that guy
and
God are jerks.” That changes things significantly. Which is why I can’t hand out a tract until I go apologize to that lady. Hypothetically speaking, of course.
Chances are, at some point in a Christian’s working career, some tragedy is going to befall a co-worker. And when a Christian gets an interoffice email about it from the administrative assistant, they’re tempted to reply with, “I’ll pray for them.”
Yikes, slow down, Billy Graham!
That kind of behavior might have been acceptable in the sixties—the
1860s
—but these days, you can’t just go throwing around the “P” word. Yes, you should be quietly,
secretly
praying for the people you work with, but here are two rules you have to follow unless you want to be chased out of the office as the resident Puritan:
