The gut reaction of a genuine Christian evangelist is that he isn’t trying to foist God on anyone. His goal is not coercion or a demand that everyone line up and become carbon copies of his admirable, Trinitarian-believing self. An authentic evangelist is far more interested in the very real person who’s sitting next to him, talking about last night’s thunderstorm or the Pixar movie he took his kids to see last week. He cares more about living, breathing, messy human beings than about fashioning religious clones. The evangelist chooses meaningful discussion over clever, well-timed lectures. In short, the evangelist shares his life—the spiritual life that Jesus Christ gave him.
That evangelist, simply put, is you and I. We are already evangelizing when we chat with friends, keep a neighbor company, and dig into the stuff of this world—mundane daily tasks, humble little jobs, or huge, sobering responsibilities. It’s happening when we catch up with coworkers on Monday morning or offer quiet intercessory prayer on Friday night. It happens when we befriend people from all walks of life, not because our goal is to mass-produce spiritual copies, but because we have found something incredible—life in Jesus Christ—and we want to share it with everyone we know. So we talk about what we’ve found, this thing that is worthy of sharing. We can’t help but share it.
These facets of evangelism—components of friendship and respect, really—say, “There’s something out there that’s bigger than we are, and Someone who cares about us, who wants us to band together.” When we lose a job, have a baby, investigate nursing homes for our parents, Someone is there. When we cradle a broken heart, are deployed, are left behind during deployment, volunteer at a homeless shelter, go to the movies, discuss Nietzsche, are ill, or become victims of violence, Someone is there. When we pray in a cold church on a Tuesday afternoon, wondering if anyone hears us, Someone is there. Someone who knows and cares about every detail of our lives, right down to the pattern of the socks we’re wearing, and why we couldn’t sleep last night.
When we see that truth, we know there’s no presumption in being an evangelist. It is a way of life. Like any life, it can be tiring, exciting, joyful, discouraging, and sometimes overwhelming, but the one thing it’s not is presumptuous. How can it be presumptuous to know you were given the gift of never-ending nourishment and, in return, hope you can help feed a hungry world?
Pope Francis said: “The Lord’s relationship with his people is a personal relationship, always. It is a person-to-person relationship…. It is not a dialogue between the Almighty and the masses.”1 Christianity is an incarnational faith. Jesus Christ came to us with flesh, blood, sweat, and tears, and he continues to work that way. Person to person, one soul, one friendship at a time. Jesus never forced himself on anyone, and we don’t have to, either. Jesus worked, loved, discussed, went to parties, prayed, asked for wine, slept when he was tired, and talked about his Father. He invited. He invites us to do the same.
This book, then, is about such invitations. It’s about people like you and me and their sometimes amazing yet ordinary examples of what it means to be a witness for Jesus Christ. It’s about the beauty of the missionary spirit in action. It is about relationship, with God and with each other.
You might ask: “But who is this book for? Is this about evangelizing non-Catholics? Fallen-away Catholics? Other religions, agnostics, or atheists? Or me?”
Yes. We’re all called to evangelize, and we all need ongoing evangelization. St. Francis of Assisi said that if we sanctified ourselves we’d sanctify society. It’s a never-ending process, but a simple one. There’s really only one “Do” and one “Don’t” when it comes to sharing the faith: Do live your love for Jesus and share it, person to person, one relationship at a time. Don’t ever give up on anyone, because you never know what God is doing behind the veil.
Far from daunting, making disciples is exhilarating. Just do as Jesus did: start small. One person. The Holy Spirit, whom Pope Francis calls the “witness of Jesus who tells us where Jesus is, how to find Jesus, what Jesus tells us,”2 will do the heavy lifting.
Go forth.
Chapter 1
Do Remember That You’re Being Watched
I GREW UP WITHOUT GOD.
That sounds nihilistic, but it wasn’t that dramatic. We didn’t denounce nattily dressed neighbors who scurried off to church, or throw rocks through local stained-glass windows. There was nothing rebellious or ugly, just a houseful of souls muddling through life, trying to figure it all out. We spent Sunday mornings as a family, with dad’s famous animal-shaped pancakes, or mom’s French toast, or brunch at the Officers’ Club on special occasions. My father was an Air Force pilot and we moved every couple of years, meeting and befriending diverse families. My childhood was populated with kind, loving, interesting people. It just didn’t happen to be populated by God.
We did have some of the cultural trappings of Christianity. Naturally, we always had a Christmas tree, who didn’t? There were glittery stockings and gifts galore. Santa’s visits to our house on Christmas Eve made me a huge fan of the holiday. It was magical. At Easter, I looked forward to chocolate bunnies piled high in a pastel basket—a beloved family tradition, and who doesn’t love a good Easter egg hunt? My household may not have believed in God, but we believed in love and family. However, when the Christmas decorations were packed away and all the Easter candy consumed, we moved on, unchanged.
There are millions of households in the United States like ours was. Good, kind people who live their lives somewhere in the agnostic-to-atheist realm because they’ve never really been introduced to Christianity. My parents were and are—I’m blessed to still have them—kind, decent, wonderful people whom I love very much. They are children of God, and I’m certain he’s quite fond of them. When I think of my parents, or of myself in the days before my conversion, my husband before his, or any number of people I know, I remember a quote from Garrison Keillor. He said somewhere, of a friend, that although she doesn’t believe in God there’s evidence that God believes in her. I think God believes in all of us, and he’d like us to be conduits of the evidence.
My childhood home was a lovely place to grow up, and I was well loved and cared for. But because we didn’t talk about God, I felt no pressing need to search for him. In reality, of course, God was always right next to me, but when you’ve grown up as I did—and as my parents did before me, and their parents before them—unbaptized and uncatechized, what does spark an interest in him? What would make a girl raised in a secular home even begin to care?
Though I didn’t realize it as I was growing up, I watched believers. Subconsciously, I recorded the actions, behaviors, and sincerity (or lack of it) of those who professed belief in Jesus Christ. The witness of Christians, for good or ill, left a deep imprint on my psyche, forming my ideas about Christianity.
Being Nothing
My earliest memory of organized religion is of a Sunday school classroom: paper dolls dressed in robes and sandals, and me, at a loss as to what to do with them. A teacher who seemed unwelcoming, unengaged. I remember only sitting alone that day. The visitor, the stranger. A few years ago, I asked my parents about the experience, and they said they tried going to church once or twice but didn’t continue.
Religion didn’t come up again until junior high school. A break in French class found a few of us sitting around chatting. Someone asked what religion everyone’s family was. Classmates around the circle confidently ticked off their answers. Catholic! Methodist! Baptist!
I panicked. Clearly, everyone was something, but what was I? I didn’t have an answer to that question. It had never seemed