Chapter Three: The Quest For Discipleship

"To make fully devoted followers of Christ"

This was the mission statement of the church I was attending when I decided I needed someone to train me.

As long as I was at that church, I couldn't for the life of me figure out what I was missing. I was there for fourteen years. I had been in small groups and house churches led by the best and brightest. I was friends with everyone in leadership, and I knew almost everyone else. I had gone to China with an outside organization and Russia with groups from the church. I had all the intellectual training I could get my hands on, but it simply was not enough.

As far as discipleship goes, I was no better off at twenty-eight than I had been at fourteen. In fact, by then, I felt like I was actually in worse shape!

I had tried to find someone to teach me. I knew I couldn't learn what I needed from books. I knew I couldn't come up with it on my own. So I looked for a trainer, of sorts. I knew everyone; how hard could it be, right?

There were a few people I worked with briefly. There was the one who tried to fix the depression problem by having me go through a workbook. There was the one who scared the crap out of me with some overly-spiritual weirdness. There was the one that turned out to be a really good friend, but not quite right for this particular purpose.

Then there was Russia. In preparation for the first trip, the team leaders asked (required) us to go through "evangelism training." This involved memorizing the Romans Road, becoming conversant in the language of EvangeCube (kitsch alert!), and knocking on doors to talk to people, using a survey from Evangelism Explosion as a guide. I did all this, because it was what I had to do to go to Russia, and because it seemed like a good plan at the time. I grew up evangelical; this is what you do, right?

I hated every minute of the two-by-two thing. It felt contrived. I was way out of my league, what with the Jehovah's Witness and Muslim I ended up in conversation with. I had the sense that I had no right to ask random strangers, even those who claimed to be Christians, the questions on that survey. I had a sense that they weren't even the right questions, but that sense was vague. What was not vague was the unsettledness about the whole thing.

It was no better when I was in Russia a few months later. We spent the whole week doing street evangelism. I loved talking with my translator. I loved talking with the people from the church we were working with in town. I loved talking with the people I met on the street. But when it came to the evangelism part of things, it just got worse and worse. Every time I opened my mouth, I would hear my words and wonder what on earth I was saying. I couldn't quite put my finger on it at first, but I had no trouble remembering what to say. The problem was somewhere in the words I was saying!

As the day progressed, so did my discomfort. I finally realized what the problem was. The whole script was designed to convince some complete stranger in five minutes' time that they needed to pray some prayer so they wouldn't go to hell when they die. What is that?

Does everything I've been taught really boil down to fire insurance? No! There has to be more. I know there's more! But from what I've been told to say, that's all there is. Did I miss something? No, I can't have missed something. I've got a mind like a steel trap. I remember everything I learned in training, in meeting with people, everything. It really does come down to some prayer that acts as a get out of hell free card!

Again, God, in his mercy, didn't leave me there. I knew there was more, and I knew it could be found if I just looked hard enough. I knew the Sinner's Prayer wasn't some sort of magic spell. I knew that following Jesus wasn't what I was being coached to say it was.

So by the end of the first day in town, I decided to quit the script. I wanted nothing to do with the scare tactics. Instead, I just talked with people. My translator and I talked incessantly. I refused to steer people away from the Orthodox Church, even though they all claimed the priest was a drunk. It became a quest to hear people's stories and ask questions instead of giving answers they never asked for.

Only one person on my watch said the prayer that whole week. Anna had actually wanted to, but "Life is so hard. Why would I want it to last forever?" I had Valera read Revelation 21:4 to her, and her eyes lit up. She was the second person I talked with on day one in Nolinsk, and even in her case, it was all wrong in my mind, because I knew she was probably going to stop with the prayer, just like most American Christians do. Because if it's all about the ticket into heaven, then once the ticket is secured, it's all good. Live a good life. Read the Bible. Go to church. Pray. You're set, right?

Because all that was working so well for me...