We’re with Jesus
It all started when some gremlins visited about ten days ago. While I was sleeping, those bacterial invaders quietly removed the inside lining of my throat and replaced it with sandpaper. A tickle became a cough, and the leading invader, a pesky cold virus, reduced me to a wheezing, watery-eyed, sniffling wreck, box of tissues permanently in hand. I’ve imbibed so many of those lemony hot drinks, I probably smell like a Spanish orchard. Apparently, a warthog sneaks into our room at night – at least that’s what my snoring sounds like according to my wife. And while Kay is not exactly walking around ringing a bell and screaming unclean! unclean!, she is certainly keeping her distance. But one of the worst symptoms of all this has been the loss of my voice. For someone who preaches a lot, broadcasts on radio and generally likes to natter to people, this is not good.
Parked in bed today, loaded with legal pharmaceuticals, it occurred to me that I have been battling with voice loss for a couple of decades or so, and the malady has nothing to do with my vocal chords. When I first heard the good news about Jesus and decided to follow him, I was loud about God. Very loud. With the bellicose hollering of a town-crier, I shared the gospel message with anybody who would listen, and with quite a few who were desperate not to listen. Like an excitable salesperson paid by commission, I viewed anybody in my nearby proximity as a prospect. The mistaken notion that one has to single-handedly tell everybody that one meets about Jesus (and be somewhat responsible for their eternal destiny) makes a chap a little jumpy. Many of my attempts to share the good news made it sound less than good. Clumsily, I tried to wrench every conversation around to Jesus. ‘Hello Jeff would you like a cheese sandwich?’, some kind soul would enquire. My grinning response was certainly cheesy: ‘No, thank you, I have the bread of life. How about you?’ Some people started to avoid me, like one infectious, and when my ‘sharing’ became an endless monologue, I’m sure I heard some snoring here and there.
Then came the switch. It was gradual.
Red-faced and head down, I hurried past that ranting street preacher with his loud hailer and ‘repent’ poster. As he yelled threats at passing shoppers, I decided I wanted to be nothing like him. My voice went quieter still.
I don’t want to return to my nervous agitation about evangelism, but surely we all, as the book says, need to be ‘Always prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks, to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect’ (1 Peter 3:15).
The gospel is news. We, in word and life, are newscasters. We’re with Jesus, and we’re called to invite others to be with Him too.
In short, I want to get my voice back.