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This is an autobiographical story about growing up in an Evangelical church:
Every year the family spends a week camping somewhere in the northwoods, fishing, swimming, hiking -- and, on Sunday, finding the nearest Nazarene Church.
This summer, when I am 14 years old, it is in Brainerd, Minnesota, an hour's drive from our campsite
"An hour there and an hour back!" I protest. "It will be 3:00 by the time we get home-- the whole afternoon wasted."
"Church is never a waste of time," Mom points out. "Besides, there might be some cute girls there."
I sigh. Ever since I started junior high, my parents and brother have been pointing out girls, asking if there are any cute girls in my class, high-fiving each other whenenever I casually mention a girl. So have my friends. Even the preacher, as he stands at the church door to shake everyone's hand as they leave, gives me a wink and says "A lot of cute girls here today!"
"And what about the soulwinners?: I continue. "We'll be mobbed!"
"Oh, stop complaining. We'll just call ahead and tell them we're coming."
The most prestigious thing a Nazarene can do is soulwinning, talking sinners (which basically means all non-Nazarenes) into accepting Jesus as their Personal Savior, thereby winning their souls for our team.
We take classes in soulwinning, hear sermons about it, read stories about it, evaluate scenarios. Our Sunday School teacher often asks "How many souls did you win this week?"
Usually none at all. It's not easy. When you were 14 years old, would you have been able to walk up to this guy and say "Hi, do you have a moment to hear the Good News of Jesus Christ?"
If you aren't "spiritually mature" enough for soulwinning, you can witness instead: tell the sinner that you are ecstatically happy every moment of every day because you're saved, or just demonstrate with a broad smile. The sinner, immersed in the unrelenting agony of the unsaved life, will eventually want to know more.
Soulwinning is so prized that casual visitors to a Nazarene church can easily be mobbed by people grinning at them and trying to start soulwinning conversations. Unless they come with a member, signifying that they are "taken," or call ahead.
When we walk through the foyer of the Brainerd Church of the Nazarene, looking for all the world like a family of sinners who stumbled in by accident, we are nearly mobbed, but the Sunday School superintendent, the one we called earlier, comes to the rescue.
"We have Nazarenes from Illinois visiting us today," he announces, and the wannabe soulwinners back off.
But in my Sunday School class, they haven't gotten the word.
Ten or so high schoolers are sitting on folding chairs or chatting before the class begins, and every one of them looks up and flashes me a toothy witnessing grin. Two girls and a boy approach, intent on starting soulwinning conversations.
"I'm from....." I begin. Then a tall, black haired boy with a strong physique, obviously church royalty, leaves his cluster of admirers and exerts control. The others back off.
"Welcome! I'm Roald," he say, offering a warm, tight handshake and a more subtle witnessing smile. He's done this before! "Is this your first time?"
This could work to my advantage!
"My parents made me come," I say, which is true.
"Well, sit down over here by me. I'll tell you how everything works. If you have any questions, just ask."
So I sit thigh to thigh with a cute boy, who helps me hold the hymnal and shows me how to find Bible verses.
The lesson is about how God has a husband or wife planned out for us, so we should keep ourselves pure and not kiss before marriage. Standard Sunday school stuff, but I'm already annoyed by Mom's "there may be cute girls there" crack, so I must look rather grumpy.
Roald thinks I'm "under conviction" and puts his arm around me.
Then we have to hold hands for the closing prayer.
This could definitely work to my advantage!
This summer, when I am 14 years old, it is in Brainerd, Minnesota, an hour's drive from our campsite
"An hour there and an hour back!" I protest. "It will be 3:00 by the time we get home-- the whole afternoon wasted."
"Church is never a waste of time," Mom points out. "Besides, there might be some cute girls there."
I sigh. Ever since I started junior high, my parents and brother have been pointing out girls, asking if there are any cute girls in my class, high-fiving each other whenenever I casually mention a girl. So have my friends. Even the preacher, as he stands at the church door to shake everyone's hand as they leave, gives me a wink and says "A lot of cute girls here today!"
"And what about the soulwinners?: I continue. "We'll be mobbed!"
"Oh, stop complaining. We'll just call ahead and tell them we're coming."
The most prestigious thing a Nazarene can do is soulwinning, talking sinners (which basically means all non-Nazarenes) into accepting Jesus as their Personal Savior, thereby winning their souls for our team.
We take classes in soulwinning, hear sermons about it, read stories about it, evaluate scenarios. Our Sunday School teacher often asks "How many souls did you win this week?"
Usually none at all. It's not easy. When you were 14 years old, would you have been able to walk up to this guy and say "Hi, do you have a moment to hear the Good News of Jesus Christ?"
If you aren't "spiritually mature" enough for soulwinning, you can witness instead: tell the sinner that you are ecstatically happy every moment of every day because you're saved, or just demonstrate with a broad smile. The sinner, immersed in the unrelenting agony of the unsaved life, will eventually want to know more.
When we walk through the foyer of the Brainerd Church of the Nazarene, looking for all the world like a family of sinners who stumbled in by accident, we are nearly mobbed, but the Sunday School superintendent, the one we called earlier, comes to the rescue.
"We have Nazarenes from Illinois visiting us today," he announces, and the wannabe soulwinners back off.
But in my Sunday School class, they haven't gotten the word.
Ten or so high schoolers are sitting on folding chairs or chatting before the class begins, and every one of them looks up and flashes me a toothy witnessing grin. Two girls and a boy approach, intent on starting soulwinning conversations.
"I'm from....." I begin. Then a tall, black haired boy with a strong physique, obviously church royalty, leaves his cluster of admirers and exerts control. The others back off.
"Welcome! I'm Roald," he say, offering a warm, tight handshake and a more subtle witnessing smile. He's done this before! "Is this your first time?"
This could work to my advantage!
"My parents made me come," I say, which is true.
"Well, sit down over here by me. I'll tell you how everything works. If you have any questions, just ask."
So I sit thigh to thigh with a cute boy, who helps me hold the hymnal and shows me how to find Bible verses.
The lesson is about how God has a husband or wife planned out for us, so we should keep ourselves pure and not kiss before marriage. Standard Sunday school stuff, but I'm already annoyed by Mom's "there may be cute girls there" crack, so I must look rather grumpy.
Roald thinks I'm "under conviction" and puts his arm around me.
Then we have to hold hands for the closing prayer.
This could definitely work to my advantage!
More after the break
