Because He Lives

Nothing can strike a note of guilt in the Christian heart quite as fast as the Great Commission—perhaps raising our kids comes close—but this one has a special sting.

We read the words and instantly feel their weight:

> “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given unto Me. Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”

It’s something we believe with all our hearts—yet somehow we struggle to like it. Because when we hear it, we remember every awkward conversation, every missed opportunity, every moment we felt unqualified.

But the Great Commission isn’t supposed to make us feel guilty.

It’s supposed to make us grateful.

Because the One who said “Go” is the same One who walked out of the tomb.

We don’t go because we’re brave; we go because He lives.

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Our Awkward Attempts

It’s not for lack of trying.

I once heard that if you’re flying, you should always take an aisle seat—never the window—because you can reach more people per flight. From there you can witness to the three across the aisle, the one beside you, the one in front, and the one behind. Six potential conversions before landing!

So I tried it.

Someone across the aisle was reading a book. “Looks like a good book,” I said.

“Yeah,” they replied.

And that was it. How do you get from “It’s a good book” to “Repent and be baptized”?

Eventually I prayed, “Lord, maybe if this plane suddenly dropped two thousand feet, people would be in a better frame of mind to talk about eternity.”

Another time I thought I’d sit at the very back near the restroom line. What better place for divine appointments? I imagined handing out Steps to Christ to nervous passengers waiting their turn. “I read Steps to Christ while I flew!”—what a testimony that would be.

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The Bus Ride to Guilt

Then there was the bus ride. Ten stops to go. A stranger sat beside me. And that quiet little voice said, If you don’t speak before they get off, you’ll be eternally lost—and so will they.

Stop 1. They stayed on.

Stop 2. Still there.

Stop 3. Now I’m sweating.

By Stop 9, they stood up and walked down the aisle—away from me and, I feared, into eternity. I clutched the seat and felt something sticky under my hand. Gum. Old gum.

And in my imagination the Lord whispered, “Their blood is on your hands.”

I laughed at myself, but I knew why it stung. Because there really are people out there who need us. There is injustice to confront, pain to comfort, meaninglessness to answer. The need is real. The question is why our methods feel so hollow.

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A World of Desperation

Have you noticed how doomsday our culture has become?

Every blockbuster ends with cities collapsing, oceans swallowing skyscrapers, humanity hanging by a thread. Even the news sounds apocalyptic—markets crashing, climates shifting, nations trembling. People are searching for meaning in the rubble.

I once read a novel about a father and son wandering through a burned, ashen world. Everything alive was gone. They survived on scraps, dodging others who had turned to cannibalism just to stay alive. When they finally reached the sea, the boy looked out over the gray horizon and asked, “What’s on the other side, Dad?”

“Nothing,” his father said.

The boy shook his head. “There has to be something.”

That line pierced me. There has to be something.

Every heart longs for that “something”—life beyond ashes, purpose beyond survival. The Great Commission is supposed to speak to that ache. Yet somehow, we’ve made it feel like a guilt trip instead of a gift.

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When Our Methods Don’t Work

So I ask myself: Why am I so inept at this?

A father once told me proudly that when his sons turned sixteen, they were required to leave home and make their own way. “It builds character,” he said. But one son couldn’t handle it; fear drove him to rebellion and addiction. I finally said, “I’m not arguing with your values, but it’s not working. If you had an investment that was failing, you’d change your approach. Why not now?”

And that’s what I began asking about evangelism. If what we’re doing isn’t working, why keep doing it? Maybe the problem isn’t the world—it’s our method.

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The Hook Problem

A friend who works with prison inmates once told me, “I’ve thrown away my fishing tackle. I’m done trying to hook anybody. I just want to help them.”

At first I argued. “But isn’t wanting to help still a hook?”