As our pastor, Ah Tee, shared the gospel story in our community for Christmas, we watched most of our neighbors stand at the invitation he gave. I’m still processing it weeks later. So many thoughts ran through my head, some I am proud of and others I am not:
Hope, at the fact that this is what we pray and wait for. This is what we live our lives for. This is why we serve every meal and wipe up every drop of blood. Am I finally watching something grow? Am I watching this be worth it?
Skepticism, at the science experiment they’d just seen, and at the peer pressure. At the cultural pressure I could feel around me. My own fear of invitations and conversions, at giving people tents when there are mansions to be had.
Questions, at what that means for tomorrow? Does anything truly change?
And perhaps all of that repeated over and over, compiling on itself to overwhelming amounts.
Then a small phrase came into my mind, from the liturgy we’ve borrowed from Innerchange and been using for our Thursday Celebrations (apparently repeating something every week does help it come forward at just the right time!):
I will listen for the echo of rejoicing in heaven
when those I minister among step into the light
or even take a small step forward,
and will remind myself that persistent celebration rolls back the power of the enemy.
I think more and more, I am less concerned with a moment of conversion.
{This probably isn’t what you want to hear from someone living overseas in a community, funded by the church, to share the gospel, but…}
It seems that it just gets blurry. If I look at the sheep and goats, I know that some of us will be surprised. I was raised to be confident in my salvation, but Scripture tells me even some of us who are confident will be surprised. If I know I am looking at the reflection, but one day will see fully–perhaps the moment is less significant than I once thought. I think of Galatians, and how much Paul shuns what we have added to the gospel–have we added conversion? Have we made a process into a prayer? Could one’s prayer be another’s process?
Perhaps it is less about a conversion moment, and more about all the steps forward, as we all step toward the light.
And then, when I look around at my neighbors, with either eternity before their eyes, excited about the miraculous science experiment, or the hope that their wrongs might be erased, really–whatever piece of Jesus they see in that moment–it is a step toward Him. It is a step toward truth.
And as I pray for my neighbors, that they might take a small step forward; I actually pray that for myself. That this year, this week, this moment–that I would take one more step forward. One more step toward Jesus, toward truth, toward the Shepherd, toward eternity.
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A few years ago I wrote about tents and mansions, and I found it coming back to the surface this holiday season. In the Book of Common Prayer, referenced in my Advent readings, this line stuck with me:
…Jesus Christ, at His coming, may find in us a mansion prepared for Himself…
That when Jesus comes, he finds us not satisfied with tents, but finds mansions. Mansions that my neighbors are still building and exploring; and mansions that we, too, are constantly discovering. May our steps toward Christ and toward eternity never end or never be quenched–but we continue to take steps toward the light and find new, grander parts to our mansions.
And then in Joy to the World, I found this same theme: May every heart prepare Him room. Theirs, mine, yours. May we all make more room for Jesus.
I always sang this previously, thinking of the hearts that don’t yet know him, that we’d all at some point in our lives make room for Him. But what if each year, each day, each moment–we are making more room? What if there was always more room to be made?
So that its not a moment–we haven’t achieved conversion, or arrived at our faith, or simply covered ourselves with a tent. We are persistently rolling back the power of the enemy, creating more room for Christ, more space in our mansion, more steps toward the light.
I like that none of us has arrived then, or sorted it. It isn’t Stephen and I sharing our faith with our neighbors. Instead, it is Stephen & I taking steps toward the light along with our neighbors. It is Stephen finding a new room to his mansion, alongside me, alongside Yaminoo, alongside Thida. It is each of us making a little more room for Christ, this holiday season, this year, and this week over a bowl of rice.
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I don’t know, friends. I don’t write because I know. I write because I’m taking steps toward the light, hopefully right alongside some of my dearest neighbors.